


Right Hand Man

by umqra1895



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Historical AU, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umqra1895/pseuds/umqra1895
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "And It Is Always 1895," though it can be read on its own. Sherlock, John and Hamish are settling into their new lives in Victorian London when they face a foe they never thought they'd see again. Sherlock assumes Jim Moriarty is after him, but Jim wants John and Hamish instead. As John fills in the position that Sebastian Moran used to fill, he tries desperately to find a way back to Sherlock before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mary

                  Sherlock slapped the newspaper onto the dining table in 221B Baker Street, making the housemaid Mary jump.

                  “The ‘Professor’ strikes again! Insufferable con won’t even let his _lackeys_ see his face! No one’s got a _clue_ who he is, even the men who work for him.”

                  John glanced sideways at Sherlock. As annoyed as Sherlock was pretending to be, John knew he was thrilled. Finally, a _real_ case to free Sherlock from the “stagnation” he was forever moaning about. John gave a chuckle as he stood up, stepping into the kitchen to snatch up one of Mary’s rolls. She gave him a sly look but didn’t stop him.

                  “Have you tried Mary’s rolls? She’s like Mrs. Hudson, except ten times better…and less nosy.”

                  Mary smiled to herself as she saw to the soup in the kitchen, and Sherlock gave the roll a spiteful glare. “Perhaps you’d be happier with Mycroft. The two of you could flit about town consuming nothing but pastries to your heart’s content,” he snapped.

                  “Yes, well Mycroft won’t be born to eat pastries for several more decades,” John jabbed back, then immediately regretted it.  Sherlock hadn’t talked about Mycroft since they’d come to live in 1895.

                  He cleared his throat and stood to wind a striped knit scarf around his neck that Sherlock had never seen before. “I’m off to meet some men from the hospital. They want to attend a show and smoke cigars and swirl brandy and the like. Should be…interesting,” John said. “Save me a bit of supper, will you, Mary?” he called into the kitchen.

                  Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John’s scarf. “Oh. Brilliant. And she’s made you a scarf,” he observed, then dropped his voice so Mary couldn’t hear. “Why don’t you two just get married? That’s what fine, upstanding doctors are supposed to do, aren’t they? Find a nice wife and settle down?”

                  John bristled, yanking open the door. “She’s making a scarf for you as well, you know. Navy blue. Like your old one. There’s nothing wrong with making friend. Just because you never bothered with them doesn’t mean us ‘normals’ can’t.” Once again, he wanted to swallow back his words. He knew how childish he sounded, but instead of apologizing or trying to backtrack, he left, slamming the door before Sherlock could yell back a retort.

                  Mary came in a few minutes later with a piping bowl of soup and another bowl of potatoes. She’d been employed as their housekeeper for several months now, and had learned that Sherlock could be blunt or hurtful or distracted, so she tried her best to stay out of his way. “I hope you like the soup,” she said, knowing there was a sizeable chance that he wouldn’t touch it.

                  “Whether I like it or not is irrelevant,” Sherlock said, picking up the paper once more.

                  Not satisfied, Mary walked over to him. “What are your favorite dishes, Mr. Holmes? I’d happily prepare them if you gave me the chance. It’s just that…not many people turn up my cooking like you do, and I’m here to make you happy.”

                  Sherlock gave a short, annoyed sigh. “I haven’t got a favorite dish. Eating for enjoyment expends energy that could be spent on more productive things. It’s transport. Fuel. Nothing more. _John_ is the only you one need to care about pleasing, and you are, obviously, as he won’t shut up about you.” He turned the page of the paper with a loud snap.

                  Mary blushed, Sherlock noticed with considerable annoyance from the corner of his eye. “He doesn’t? Erm, what I mean is, sir, I won’t take offense to your indifference to my food, then.” She smiled a bit. “Though few have tasted my treacle fudge without cracking a smile.”

                  “Fudge doesn’t make me smile. Treacle or otherwise.”

                  Mary sighed, finally giving up, and bobbed a curtsey. “If there’s anything else you need, I’ll be tending to Mr. Doyle downstairs,” she said, and disappeared.

 

                  Over the next week, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice every time John and Mary talked, even if it was a polite greeting, and he couldn’t help but feel an unpleasant twinge at the base of his stomach when John praised her. Was this what jealousy felt like? Such a pointless emotion.

                  Yet he felt it again a few days later, when John was in the kitchen conversing with Mary, leaving Sherlock studying tobacco ash varieties under his magnifying glass. He was more than glad to answer the bell when it rang; anything to distract him from John and Mary’s incessant, enthusiastic talking. He was careful to hide his elation at finding DI Gregson at the door: A Yard inspector was asking for his consultation!

                  “What’s happened?” he asked, leading the inspector up the stairs to his flat.

                  “A robbery, with two homicides. Will you come?”

                  Sherlock’s mouth twitched up for a moment. “Of course, let me get my coat.”

                  John stepped out of the kitchen. “Another one?” he asked, looking at Gregson and then at Sherlock, who was hurriedly pulling on his coat and hat. Not a deerstalker, but a proper top hat John had bought a few days ago for him.

                  “Robbery, two deaths,” Sherlock said.

                  John strode over to grab his own coat. “Can I come?”

                  Sherlock sidled up beside him ad hissed quietly, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here chatting up Mary?”

                  “What are you on about? Let me come with you. I can help, and it’s been ages since I’ve been able to go on a case,” John begged.

                  Gregson raised an eyebrow at John. “And who are _you?_ ”

                  “My _colleague_ ,” Sherlock said. “Apparently he’s decided to come with.”

                   Since Sherlock refused to introduce him further, John held out his hand. “Dr. John Watson. Pleasure to meet you.”

                  “Ahh, you’re Dr. Watson, like from the stories? You write up the adventures?”

                  “No, no, Mr. Doyle does, I’m afraid,” John said. “He just writes from my perspective.”

                  “I didn’t know you really existed! Sherlock’s never mentioned you,” Gregson said.

                   John gave Sherlock a sideways look. “Well, he tends to keep his colleagues on the backburner, since they generally can’t live up to his _massive intellect_. Shall we?”

                  Sherlock shot daggers at John, but didn’t say anything as they headed down the stairs and got in the Gregson’s waiting carriage.

                   After a silent ride, only punctuated by the occasional question about the case from Sherlock, they arrived at the crime scene and Sherlock stepped to look around it. It had been a grisly business, the deaths.

                  John circled the bodies as well, then took out a notepad and jotted down notes as Sherlock rattled off his observations to the astonished Gregson. John also noted that Sherlock was being more of an ass than usual, calling Gregson and idiot multiple times.

                  John finally yanked him over for a “closer look at a head wound.”

                  “Sherlock, ease up! You need some people on your side, because right now you’re pushing _me_ to the edge!”

                  Sherlock glared up at him. “I’m not _here_ to make friends, John, and if you’ll recall, _I_ didn’t ask _you_ to come! If you don’t like the way I work, then you are more than welcome to leave.” He stood back up and circled around the other body.

                  John clenched his teeth. “Fine. See you at the flat. Maybe.” He stalked off, furious.

                  Sherlock, however, didn’t even both looking up, focusing his attention on his work, though his words were more taut and he continued acting snappish for the rest of the investigation.

 

                  When Sherlock returned home, John was just sitting down to dinner, and Mary was sitting in Sherlock’s usual spot. John immediately reddened and Mary stood up, embarrassed. “Sorry—I didn’t think you’d be home in time,” John said.

                  Sherlock looked between the two of them, then said coldly, “It’s fine, I’m not hungry anyway.”

                  “I’ll eat in the kitchen, sir,” Mary said, grabbing her plate. “It was wrong of me to sit here in the first place.”

                  “Mary, it’s all right. I already invited you to eat at the table with us. There’s room for three,” John said, urging Mary to sit down again.

                  “By all means, continue your dinner,” Sherlock said, then disappeared into his and John’s room, knowing John wouldn’t follow him while Mary was around. Irritated and somewhat injured, he buried himself in some case accounts he was re-writing, all the while listening to John’s and Mary’s conversation. John was being his usual charming self, perhaps not meaning to be flirtatious but coming off that way anyway. It felt like ages before the sounds of dinner plates being stacked and cleared filled the next room and the door to the flat finally opened and closed.

                  John opened the bedroom door. “She’s gone. Are you quite done sulking?”

                  Sherlock didn’t look up from his notes. “I am well aware that she is gone.”

                  “Why do you hate her so much? She’s genuinely trying to make your life more comfortable, and you sulk around like a child. It’s embarrassing.”

                  Sherlock wrote a bit more furiously. “I don’t hate Mary. You’ve jumped to a conclusion based on pure speculation.”

                  “Then why are you angry?”

                  “I’m not angry. I wasn’t hungry.”

                  “Lovely. The denial and passive aggressive behavior’s really charming. I’m going to sleep in Hamish’s room tonight, if that’s fine with you.” Hamish was off at school until the weekend, so the bedroom was free.

                  Sherlock finally raised his eyes to look at John. “More than.”

                  “ _Excellent.”_ John stopped over to the dresser and yanked out his pyjamas. He turned to leave, stopped, then turned back to Sherlock. “Sherlock, be honest- are you _jealous_ of Mary? Because obviously there’s nothing going on there.”

                  Sherlock looked up from his notes to look out the window, snorting in bitter amusement. “ _Surely_ you haven’t fooled yourself into thinking there is nothing going between you two. A blind man could see it.” He paused for a moment. “I understand, though. There are certain rules and taboos in this century. You and Mary could go out and be seen together. In fact, as a man of your career standing, it would be frowned upon if you _didn’t_ find a wife soon. I hardly can blame you for entertaining the idea.”

                  “Sherlock, you’re being ridiculous! This isn’t even up for discussion. I’m not some fickle berk who’s going to run off with someone else, so stop being such a self-pitying mope.”

                  Sherlock refused to look at him. “Goodnight, John.”

                  John left and stomped up the stairs, sick of dealing with Sherlock’s melancholy mood. 

 

                  John and Sherlock slept in separate beds over the next few nights. A few days later, Sherlock came home from an unfruitful walk around the area and stopped at the door of the flat, unable to help himself from eavesdropping on a conversation between John and Mary.

                  “Your wife...when did she die?”

                  “Not long after Hamish was born.”

                  “So long? What I mean is, it’s a surprise you haven’t remarried. A...kind man like you. I don’t mean to say the death isn’t hard still, of course it must be.”

                  “Yes, well...some men are better off as bachelors, you know.”

                  “You mean like Mr. Holmes? I can’t imagine him ever marrying.”

                  “Neither can I.” John’s voice was bitter, and Sherlock clenched his jaw, trying not to let John’s tone affect him.

                  “What an eccentric flatmate he must be!”

                  “You have no idea. I just feel lucky he hasn’t driven away our most excellent housekeeper...”

                  There was a pause in the conversation. Sherlock strained his ear against the door, but no voice emerged for several moments.

                  “I’m sorry!” Mary finally said. “That was—I shouldn’t have—“

                  “No, it wasn’t that—Mary, you don’t have to leave—“

                  Sherlock quickly backed away from the door and pretended to just be arriving when Mary exited, cheeks red.

                  She mumbled an apology and gave a quick curtsy before hurrying past him down the stairs.

                  Sherlock stalked into the room, slamming the door. He was fuming as he looked at John. “If you’d like your eccentric flatmate to move out so the happy couple can continue in peace, let me know,” he said, his voice venomous.

                  “Sherlock, were you _spying on me_?” John stood up, outraged.

                  “I _overheard!_ It doesn’t take much spying to figure out what’s going on, John!” Sherlock’s voice rose. “How long have you been planning on snogging her, then?”

                  John stalked up to him. “What the _hell_ are you talking about?! Mary tried to kiss me and I pulled away. Yes, obviously we’re getting married tomorrow! You’re a self-proclaimed sociopath, so maybe you should try and stop interpreting others’ relationships, because you’re shit at it!”

                  “Oh, _please_! You may have pulled away, but it certainly TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH! Or for those few minutes were you just _adoringly staring into each others’ eyes_?”

                  “You’re acting like a _child._ I told you the truth- she tried to kiss me and I turned her down. All right? I was just being _friendly_ and she took it the wrong way. Maybe if you weren’t excluding me from cases I wouldn’t be around her so often!”

                  “I wasn’t aware ‘being friendly’ included shoving your tongue down other people’s throats! And don’t you _dare_ try and pin this all on me! You spend virtually all day, _every_ day at St. Bart’s, leaving me here with _nothing_ to do! You can _hardly_ blame me for not waiting for you _every_ time a case comes up!”

                  John stared at him in disbelief for a moment. He dropped his voice and said condescendingly, “Well, _excuse_ me for making a living so you can afford to sit around thinking or walking aimlessly looking for cases because you’re too _good_ to work.”

                  Sherlock ground his teeth and bored his cold gray eyes into John’s before saying coolly, “I didn’t realize I was such a burden to you. Don’t worry, I’ll be gone by the time Mary comes back to prepare dinner.” He headed for the bedroom, fully intending on packing up. If John didn’t want him anymore, he wasn’t about to stick around.

                  John grabbed his arm to stop him, yanking him back towards him and then shoved him until his back hit the wall. “Get this through your thick, delusional skull, you knob. _There’s nothing going on with Mary and me!_ If you can’t believe that, then that means you can’t trust me. _Do you trust me at all_?”

                  John was fuming, his cheeks flushed and his eyes flashing.

                  Sherlock stared him up and down for moment. He was close enough that his hot breath was hitting John’s cheek.

                  He grabbed John’s shoulders and kissed him. John gave a muffled noise of surprise, then pushed him away. “A kiss doesn’t qualify as an answer! You think I’d let myself be trapped in another century with a man I’d flippantly dump a month later?”

                  In lieu of an answer, Sherlock kissed John again, pulling John closer to him, one hand at the small of his back, the other wrapping under John’s ear and pulling at the back of his neck.

                  John, still upset, tried to struggle away from him, his face flushed, his voice a bit softer now. “You still haven’t answered me. Kissing me doesn’t just fix the fact that you’ve been utterly ridiculous lately.”

                  Sherlock murmured into John’s mouth, “Oh, shut up. As if you haven’t been a complete flirt. Proper Victorian housemaids don’t kiss their employers without some form of approval. You’ve been leading her on since you got here.” He ran his fingers through John’s hair, pausing to kiss him more deeply, then mumbled, “Idiot…”                 

                  John alternated between kissing Sherlock—God, even when he was mad he couldn’t get enough—and trying to struggle away from him so he could defend himself. He finally pushed him away. “I was just—being friendly! Sherlock, you _have_ to trust me.”

                  Sherlock stepped away from the wall. “Do you trust Mary, John?”

                  “I trust her as a housekeeper,” John said.

                  “I want you to tell her about us, John.”

                  John frowned at the idea. He hadn’t the slightest notion of how homosexuality was viewed in Victorian England. Was it even legal? He doubted it was at all acceptable.  “But—she might quit. She might be so uncomfortable that she quits working for Arthur. She could spread gossip about it on the street and ruin your name. No more clients. Is that what you want?”

                  “I’m aware of the risks, John. At the very least tell her that there’s someone else. Make it clear that there is no way you and she can ever work. I don’t—“ Sherlock gritted his teeth, not wanting to admit the truth, but finally said quietly, “I don’t want to compete for you.”

                  John shook his head at him. “You never have to compete for me. It’s like I said, you have me, all of me, whether you want it or not. I’ll think of something to tell Mary. I promise.”

                  Sherlock nodded, but didn’t say anything.

                  “So, what else do you want from me? I’ve loved you far longer than you’ve loved me, and I still get this feeling that I’m being fickle—it’s really unfair.”

                  Sherlock’s anger resurfaced. “Unfair? _Unfair_? How would _you_ feel if I started flirting with Mary? How would _you_ feel if I started spending more time with her than _you?_ How would _you_ feel if every time she came into the room she holds _all of my attention!_ It doesn’t matter if you loved me first! I am here _here_ now! I. Am. Here! _Where the HELL are YOU?!_ ”

                  John glared at him, then grabbed him by the neck with both hands and kissed him forcefully, making Sherlock’s knees buckle as John pushed his mouth open with his tongue, then pulled away to murmur, “I’m right here.”

                  Sherlock only paused for a quick breath of air before he began hungrily kissing John back, ripping his jacket off and pulling him closer.

                  John murmured into his mouth as he kissed him, “You son of a bitch. I’m right here.”

                  Sherlock grabbed onto John’s shirt and pulled him into the bedroom, kissing him the whole way, refusing to let him go. Once inside, John pulled Sherlock down onto the bed, clawing at his back. Sherlock didn’t waste a moment in grinding his hips against his, then began unbuttoning John’s shirt.

                  John groaned against Sherlock’s lips, furiously ripping at the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, running his free hand over Sherlock’s throat and squeezing it briefly. Once their shirts had been cast onto the floor, John rolled over to pin Sherlock to the bed, forcing his head back so he could bite and lick up Sherlock’s neck, digging his nails into Sherlock’s arms.

                  “You bloody idiot. How could you ever doubt that I want _you_?” John asked breathily as Sherlock groaned and arched his back to press his chest against John’s.

                  John grabbed Sherlock’s hands from his back and pinned them to the bed above his head. “Say you’re sorry.”

                  “I think you’re the one that owes _me_ an apology,” Sherlock said, looking daringly up at John.

                  John bent to lick slowly up his neck, then paused with his lips barely touching Sherlock’s. “Just say it.”

                  Sherlock bit back a groan. “Just because you’ve got me here doesn’t mean I wasn’t _right._ ” He craned his neck up towards John and growled, “ _You_ kissed the housekeeper. You’re in the wrong, admit it.”

                  “ _She_ tried to kiss me. And failed I might add,” John muttered, then dipped his head down to drag out Sherlock’s lower lip with his teeth, giving it a quick suck.

                  “And you’ve been flirting with her since _day one_.”

                  “I didn’t mean to, honestly.” John gave him a light kiss. “I guess I need to turn down my charms. It won’t happen again, and I’m sorry. Satisfied?”

                  Sherlock struggled to free his wrists from John’s grip, but John moved to grasp both of Sherlock’s wrists with one hand, the other moving to his throat to pin it against the bed, then he licked along Sherlock’s cheekbone, traveling his mouth to his ear. “I said I’m sorry. Your turn.”

                  Sherlock moaned as John began to nibble at his ear. “Sorry,” he breathed, closing his eyes.

                  John examined Sherlock’s face, enjoying having him trapped, all to himself. The past few nights alone in Hamish’s room had been unbearable. “I could get used to this,” he murmured, beginning to grind his hips slowly against Sherlock’s. He loosened his grip on Sherlock’s wrists and throat, but Sherlock didn’t try to break free, apart from arching his neck up to catch John’s lips in another kiss and wrapping a leg around John to pull him even closer.

                  John felt Sherlock’s erection pressing against him and couldn’t bear it anymore. He moved his hands down Sherlock’s chest and torso, then began yanking off his trousers, grabbing at his cock, then slid down and grabbed the base, licking a circle around the head.

                  Sherlock groaned and dug his fingers into John’s shoulders, wanting more friction.

                  John tormented him for a bit, trailing his tongue lightly up and down the veins and moving his hand up to fondle his balls, giving them a quick squeeze.

                  “Ungh, _fuck_ , John!” Sherlock bucked his hips, wanting John to move faster.

                  John wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s arched back, taking him in his mouth at last, pulling in and out, easing off occasionally before setting in again, causing Sherlock’s pleasure to roll in waves.

                  Sherlock moaned and moved his foot along John’s ankle. John sucked faster, tightening his lips around Sherlock, then reached a hand down to touch himself, sucking and pumping the base of Sherlock’s cock with his free hand.

                  When Sherlock finally came, John pulled away and finished himself, gasping into Sherlock’s hip, then drew himself up to Sherlock’s mouth and kissed him. “Apology accepted?”

                  Sherlock nodded weakly, and wrapped his arm around John, holding him until they both fell asleep.


	2. The Professor

That weekend, Hamish came home from school gushing about his favorite professor.

                  “He’s just like you, Dad! He’s really smart and really interesting and he’s always pushing me to be cleverer, and he laughs when I show up the other students! You _have_ to meet him!”

                  Hamish had brought back an invitation that “cordially invited” parents to attend the school over the coming weekend.

                  “Do you work next Saturday, John?” Sherlock asked, handing over the invitation.

                  “I don’t.”

                  “So you’ll come?” Hamish asked eagerly.

                  John looked at Sherlock and nodded. Hamish danced around with glee, than ran up to put his suitcase in his bedroom.

                  “Nice to have some youthful energy around here again, isn’t it?” John hung his bowler on the hat stand and walked over to kiss Sherlock.

                  It wasn’t long before Sherlock had the violin tuned and was creating songs as he went, drawing the bow in long sweeps across the strings.

                  At the music, Hamish came bounding down the stairs. “I love it when you play the violin, Dad! You should teach me.”

                  “That violin’s a bit big for you, Hamish,” John pointed out.

                  Sherlock played a final note before dropping the violin from his shoulder. “Do you really want to learn?”

                  Hamish dropped his eyes. “I know you’re busy, and that I’m only here on weekends.”

                  “If you’d like to try, I can show you. I’m likely a bad teacher, though. Come here.”

                  Over the next hour, Sherlock showed Hamish how to hold the violin, and how to grasp the bow, steering his arm, letting him play a few notes. Soon Hamish was awkwardly holding the large violin by himself, experimentally sawing at the strings.

                  John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist as they watched their son concentrate. Both men were so engrossed in the playing that they failed to hear Mary’s footsteps and only just managed to jump away from each other when she opened the door.

                  John wondered if Mary had seen anything. She did seem to be giving Sherlock and him a strange look, but it quickly faded when she saw Hamish playing.

                  “Learning the violin! We missed you very much here, Hamish.”

                  “Mary!” Hamish ran to give her a hug and began chattering about school.

                  Sherlock gave John a quick, concerned look before whipping the violin back up to his shoulder and playing a spirited gavotte, going to stand by the window as he played.

                  “Are you cooking dinner again, Mary? Food at school is _horrid_ and you can never have seconds—not that you’d want to. My friend Robert told me they put crushed worms in the gravy.”

                  Mary laughed and pushed Hamish’s curls from his eyes. “No worms tonight, love. I’m making your favorite. Steak and kidney pie.”

                  “Brilliant; that’s Dad’s favorite, isn’t it, Dad?”

                  Sherlock and John both looked over, then Sherlock quickly turned back to the window, mentally reprimanding himself.

                  “Thank you, Mary. I’m amazed you managed to pull something like that together on our tight budget.” John had reduced the shopping budget and had cut other corners to save up for Sherlock’s violin, but Sherlock hadn’t noticed or minded the potato and cabbage-centric dinners of late.

                  “Oh, it’s nothing, really. As long as you know the right grocers and markets to go to...I’m happy to help.” Sherlock glanced her way and she blinked a couple times, looking embarrassed and a trifle uncomfortable. She turned her attention back to Hamish. “If you help me in the kitchen, I’ll let you sample everything before we serve it.”

                  “Yes, _please!”_

The two disappeared into the kitchen, and John approached Sherlock and murmured, “Do you think she saw us?”

                  Sherlock continued playing. “Yes.”

                  “We’ll need to tell her, then. I will. After dinner.”

                 

                  When Mary had cleared up after dinner, John pulled her aside in the hallway and explained quietly that the reason she and he couldn’t be together was because John was in love.

                  “But I’ve never seen you with another woman,” Mary said, and John gave her a meaningful look.

                  It took several moments for Mary to understand. “Oh! You…but he’s…a man.”

                  “Yes. We’d still love to have you around, Hamish especially. We both want what’s best for him. We just…we just want to be a family.”

                  Mary considered this, then gave John a quick, uncertain smile and left down the staircase, leaving John to wonder if she was going to tell the whole neighborhood or if she was simply going to avoid them from here on out.

 

                  When Saturday rolled around, John and Sherlock took a carriage south of the Thames to Hamish’s school. In the main foyer, parents milled about with their sons, all of whom were clad in the school’s stark uniforms, and it wasn’t long before they spotted Hamish waving excitedly amidst the sea of wool navy jackets.

                  Sherlock scanned the crowed, deconstructing the posh, upper class men and women strolling about, and John wondered if Hamish was making friends his own age; he was so tight-lipped about his social life.

                  “You both have to meet my favorite professor. He’s really really smart. Come on!” Hamish pulled on his parents’ sleeves, yanking them in the direction of the main hall, where the professors were milling about, having a meet and greet with the parents.

                  “I see him! Come on!” Sherlock and John followed him across the room and approached the back of a dark-haired man in a top hat. Sherlock clears his throat as Hamish reaches out to tug on the man’s sleeve. The man turned around and John and Sherlock stared in horror at James Moriarty.

                  “Best close your mouths, boys. Did you miss me?” Jim grinned, enjoying their shock.

                  Sherlock took an involuntary step back. “How— _how are you here?!_ ” He lunged forward and grabbed Moriarty’s tie and hissed, “ _HOW ARE YOU HERE?! I WATCHED YOU DIE!_ ”

                  Hamish looked in wide-eyed alarm between Sherlock and Jim, baffled. “Da—Uncle Sherlock, stop!”

                  Jim pushed Sherlock off, brushing off his suit and straightening his tie. “Easy there—hand tailored. Bet you weren’t expecting this, were you?” He smiled down at Hamish and tousled his hair. “A _dooor_ able kid you’ve got here. Ever so clever. Just like Daddy.”

                  John yanked Hamish away from his hand. “Don’t you dare touch him!”

                  Jim clucked his tongue. “Ohh, Johnny-Boy...what makes you think you could ever stop me? Hamish and I are rather good friends, aren’t we?” He smiled, snake-like, down at the boy.

                  Hamish frowned and struggled away from John. “Yeah, Dad, we’re friends!”

                  “ _How are you here? How are you not dead?_ ” Sherlock repeated.

                  “I could ask the same thing about _you._ Except wait…I already know! Faked your death...nice job on that, very nice. And then...what did he call them? The weeping angels. Brilliant- look at you two. Barely used to all this.” Jim looked around at the parents milling around. “Simpletons, all of them.” He glared at them, then turned back them, his eyes dark and his expression unreadable. “I was dead, you know. But _he_ brought me back.”

                  Sherlock’s brain whirled as he tried to keep up and make sense out of it all. Moriarty. Alive. Here, in 1895. It was even more impossible than himself and John being here.

                  “ _Who?_ The Doctor?”

                  “The _Doctor?”_ Jim spit out the name in disgust. “No, no, no. The Master. Not a name I reserve for anyone aside from myself, normally, but he _is_ rather brilliant. Enjoys causing mayhem. _He_ brought me back and gave me a whole new life here.”

                  The name was unfamiliar to Sherlock. He glared at Moriarty for a moment before taking a deep breath, collecting himself, the straightening, looking his nemesis over coolly. Hamish stuck his head around Sherlock, still confused.

                  “Will somebody please tell me what’s _wrong_?” Hamish asked.

                  Sherlock kept Hamish from moving any closer to Jim. He locked his eyes with Moriarty, who had a small smile on his lips, clearly enjoying every moment of catching Sherlock and John so off guard.

                  “Don’t worry, Hamish, dear, your daddies are just a bit behind the times.”

                  “We’re going,” Sherlock growled.

                  “Hamish. Go wait outside for a few minutes,” John said.

                  “But _Dad—”_ John cast Hamish such a stern and desperate look that Hamish closed his mouth and obeyed.

                  Once he was gone, Sherlock turned back to Jim with cold and calculating eyes. “Why are you here?”

                  Jim breathed in through his nose. “To live,” he said. He opened his eyes and rolled them dramatically. “And to tutor bright young lads. Like Hamish. _Hamish._ The poor boy—who chose that name? Bet it was you, Johnny.” He grinned at John, who lunged at him.

                  “I swear, if you touch a hair on his—“

                  Moriarty lazily stepped back. “Restrain your _pet_ , Sherlock, before he does something stupid. We both know trying to hurt me now will only reflect poorly on _you_. I’m an esteemed professor here, you forget.”

                  Sherlock threw an arm out to stop John, knowing Jim was right.

                  “All those crimes. The faceless ‘Professor’ organizing dozens of crimes throughout the city. It was you,” Sherlock muttered. “I’m glad you’re entertaining yourself, _Professor._ Creative name. Very cute.”

                  Jim grinned. “You want to talk _cute?_ How about the fact that you two are tangled in a sweet, forbidden love affair and caring for a _child_ the magical man in the funny blue box created for you? Honestly, it’s so sweet I’m going diabetic just _looking_ at you two.” He leaned forward to John. “Be honest, Johnny-boy...does he make you scream in bed?” He cocked his head and held Sherlock’s gaze as John clenched his jaw, turning bright red and looking away. “Bet he does.”

                  Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Jealous, Jim? I imagine your nights have been rather lonely without your dear Sebastian.” Jim’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, just for a moment, but Sherlock noticed. “Ooh, yes, I know all about you two and how you liked to be pushed around the bedroom. Liked having a few minutes of not having to think, did you? I’d tell him hello for you, but he’s dead or he will be, in our time. Shot right through the head. Bit ironic, considering his profession, don’t you agree?”

                  Jim adopted a bored drawl, his voice dripping apathy. “Well, he had it coming...the man had stamina, but he was never the brightest. Easy to manipulate.” He twisted his mouth into a cruel smile. “Love is such a detriment to _winning._ Isn’t that what you always said, Sherlock? How you’ve changed. I’ll be keeping a very close eye on your son, while Daddy’s away. He’s got potential. ...Ooh! I wonder if I could adopt him once his fathers are incarcerated!”

                  Sherlock restrained John as he lunged forward again, then smirked at Jim. “We’ll be keeping a close eye on _you_ , Jim.”

                  “Ooh! I’m flattered.”

                  “Goodbye, Jim,” Sherlock said cold, then turned away, spinning John with him and towing how toward the door, where Hamish was waiting.

                  John leaned down to give Hamish a tight hug. “That professor Moriarty? I don’t care how nice he seems. _Don’t_ trust him, and don’t let him get you alone.”

                  “But he tutors me!”

                  “Switch tutors,” Sherlock said. “In fact, we should switch you to another school entirely.”

                  Hamish looked stricken. “What? Why?? No! I’ve got friends here—I _like_ Professor Moriarty! I don’t want to leave!”

                  “We’ll discuss it later, but until later notice, you’re coming home with us,” Sherlock said.

                  “But Parents Day’s just _started_! We can’t leave yet! I was going to show you my dormitory and the dining hall!”

                  It was a very sulky ride back to Baker Street. Hamish was angry and glum the rest of the week. John and Sherlock pulled him out of the school and enrolled him in a less prestigious school closer to Westminster, where he could come home every day.

                  To make matters worse, one day they received a note with their mail that said, “See you soon. xx JM.”

                  Sherlock looked up at Mary and showed her the note. “Who delivered this?”

                  “I didn’t see, sir. It was dropped through the mail slot with the other letters, and I assumed it was some sort of calling card. Who’s ‘JM’?”

                  Sherlock sat back in his chair, pursing his lips in annoyance. “Jim Moriarty. An old acquaintance. He’s a professor at Hamish’s old school.” He proceeded to give her a brief but detailed description of his appearance. Mary was taken aback when Sherlock continued with great earnestness, “Mary, if this man comes to the door, you are not, under any circumstances, to let him in. Do you understand me? The only exception is if _I_ am here.”

                  Mary met his eye and nodded. “I understand, Mr. Holmes. Moriarty...that name sounds familiar.”

                  “He’s the one I was telling Arthur about...the one who made Sherlock fake his own death,” John put in.

                  Mary’s eyes widened as she turned back to Sherlock. “Oh! The one you jumped off a waterfall with?”

                   Sherlock frowned and mouthed “waterfall?” at John, who gave an apologetic smile. Arthur did enjoy his adaptations and embellishments.

                  “Dr. Watson’s rendition of that adventure made me cry, sir! He’s a good storyteller, your—friend.”

                  Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her word choice, full well that Mary knew they were more than friends, but he didn’t press the subject. If Mary chose to share the information with anyone, it could ruin them.

                  “This isn’t some man from a story. He is not only a danger to John and Hamish, but to you and Arthur as well, and will risk others’ lives without a second thought if he thinks it will help him get to me. If he comes to the door and no one is here, or even they _are_ for that matter, act as if you don’t care for me at all.” He looked her up and down. “Which shouldn’t be too difficult for you, and wouldn’t be that hard for him to believe either.”

                  Mary nodded seriously, then looked at the floor. “I do care for you, sir... _both_ of you. And...and your…secret is safe with me. About you two.”

                   Sherlock glanced at John, who looked relieved, then back to her, reaching his hand out to raise her chin so their eyes met. Sherlock searched her face for a moment. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

                  Mary blushed at his touch and gives a quick nod.  “I should go...but I’ll do as you say. Of course.”

                  Once Mary had ducked out of the room, Sherlock sighed and sank further into his chair, crossing one leg over the other and steepling his fingers, thinking. “John, I’m going to tell you this now, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t bother trying to argue with me. If Moriarty takes either you or Hamish, or _both_ for that matter, I’m trading myself in for you. He wants _me_ and you two have no business getting pulled into it. ... _Again_ , in your case.”

                  John stepped over to look at Sherlock, his arms crossed. “Hamish, I can understand. But if he takes me...I’m sorry, I’m not going to accept that.

                  Sherlock stared at the fireplace. “Unfortunately for you, that’s not your call. Jim won’t care if you want to be traded or not. It’s my decision. I just thought you should know my intentions, should it happen.”

                  John clenched his jaw. “Fine. I understand. But it’s not going to come to that. And even if he won, do you really think he’d accept a trade anyway? He plays by his own rules.”

                  “Oh, he trades...he’s just creative about it. If you’ll recall, he traded yours, Mrs. Hudson’s, and Lestrade’s life for mine...although I imagine that _this_ time he’ll want to stick around to make sure I hold up my end of the bargain.”


	3. Opium Den

John was making his way home from the clinic on foot in the hopes of conserving some money. He was wondering irritably how Victorian Londoners kept their feet at all between the uneven cobblestones and the lack of arch support in their shoes, when a ruddy-faced man began walking in step alongside him. John cast him a worried, sideways glance, expecting a panhandler. The man grinned at him, showing him a multitude of missing and rotten teeth. “Ho, there, Dr. Watson. Where yeh be off to? Baker Street, I’m expectin’?”

                  John tensed up at the sound of his name on this strange man’s lips and picked up his pace, aiming for the thicker cluster of people ahead. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, mate,” he muttered and pushed into the crowd, hoping to lose him.

                  The man pushed in after him, catching his elbow. “Woah, there, doc! Yeh might not want to be running off _just_ yet, now. I’ve got a bit of a message for ya, from the Professor!”

                  John stopped, letting people brush past him. He immediately thought of Sherlock and Hamish, then spun to face the man, teeth clenched. “ _What is it,_ then?”

                  The man gave another disgusting grin and shoved a folded piece of paper into John’s hands. John unfolded it:

 

 _I’m not sure if you noticed, but school security during this time is really rather lax, especially in those less prestigious institutions. It didn’t even give me a rush going to scoop up little Hamish. Shame. I_ do _detest boredom. Hamish is closer than you think. If you don’t go with this man without a fuss, his little throat will be slit into a wide, bloody smile. I would prefer he stayed alive. I hope we are like-minded. See you soon, Johnny Boy._

_Yours, JM xxx_

                  John’s grip on the note weakened as he read it, until the scrap of paper finally fluttered out of his hands. He hoped against reason that someone would pick it up and read it and do something to help, but it was soon muddy and trampled by the other pedestrians.

                  The man was still grinning obscenely at him. John wanted to punch him, but he merely spat out, “Lead on, you stupid wretch.”

                  Several winding streets later, John was properly lost as they finally stopped in a back alley. The man stopped at a low doorway marked only by a red lantern, then pushed the door open for John, allowing a cloud of smoke to billow out. “After you, doc.”

                  John removed his bowler as he stooped to enter the opium den. It was difficult to see far into it, as it was so dimly lit and full of smoke.

                  “This way, doc.” The man grabbed the back of John’s neck and began steering him through a labyrinth of rooms, small spaces crammed with pillowed sofas and low chairs, most of them occupied by glassy-eyed people clutching at hookahs.

                  The man finally shoved John roughly into a small room with a hookah table and a single sofa wrapped around it, empty except for Moriarty, who was sprawled out on the cushions. The door shut behind him.

                  John already felt lightheaded from the smoke, but he didn’t waste time in stalking up to Moriarty and yanking him to his feet by his lapels. “Where is he? _Where is he?_ What’ve you done with him?”

                  Jim glared down at where John’s hands were rumpling his suit, then raised an eyebrow, keeping his voice mild. “Why don’t you take a seat? I’d like to have a little chat first, honey.” His voice rose to a vicious growl. “ _Now get off my suit!_ ”

                  John tightened his grip on the suit lapels and stared into Jim’s soulless eyes. He had never felt such loathing for the man. “I could kill you right here, you know. I don’t need a gun, and there’s nobody here to see me. Now. Where. Is. My. Son?”

                  Jim’s lips curled into an amused smile and he gently plucked John’s fingers from his suit. “You see, _this_ is what I like about you, John. You’re so…” He narrowed his eyes, theatrically pretending to think of the right word. “ _…passionate_. If only you could harness that and focus it on more _useful_ things. Now SIT!”

                  He shoved John backwards, forcing John to fall back onto the sofa. He haulted himself to a sitting position, glaring up at Jim. He restrained himself from leaping up and strangling him; he needed to know where Hamish was, and until he did, he’d have to play along.

                  “Now that’s better, isn’t it? Comfortable? You’re not going to kill me, John. I’m sure you _could._ ” He sat opposite John, crossing his legs and throwing an arm over the back of the sofa. “A nice, strong army man, such as yourself. But with your beloved boy’s life on the line, it wouldn’t be to your advantage, would it?” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for John’s reply.

                  John clenched his jaw and looked at Jim with quiet rage.

                  “Thought as much.” Jim leaned forward to take up one of the hookah’s long pipes and inhaled, holding the smoke in for a moment before blowing it John’s way. He muttered, more to himself, it seemed, “So predictable. Consistant. Take a family member, get a result.”

                  John coughed at the fumes, finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes focused. He struggled to stay alert. “Where is my son, and what do you want?”

                  Jim rolled his eyes. “You’re no fun at all. You don’t like puzzles like Sherlock. Straight to business, aren’t you, Doctor Watson?” Jim’s eyes glinted before he sighed and examined his nails. “To answer your question, Hamish it at school. Right where he should be.”

                  John blinked at him, confused, then rose to his feet a bit unsteadily. “Cute. Really cute. You should’ve stayed dead, Moriarty, quit while you were ahead, because this is just pathetic.” He moved toward Jim, ready to seize him up and choke the life out of him, to break every bone in his neck and be rid of him forever.

                  He didn’t get farther than a few steps before Jim leaped up and delivered a fast, unexpected blow to John’s stomach that sent him staggering backwards, doubled over. John gasped in pain and shock as Jim’s voice washed over him. “He’s right where he should be, being watched by _my_ people, who would gladly let their knives meet his throat at my signal. _SIT BACK DOWN.”_

                  John stumbled backwards into the sofa, panting. “What do you want me to do _?_ ” he spat out. He would do anything to keep Hamish safe.

                  Jim paused for a moment, thinking. “Remember the last time we had a little rendezvous? Back at the pool?”

                  John stiffened. He didn’t want to relive that night.

                  “That’s when I decided I liked you.” Jim contemplatively took another drag from the hookah, letting the smoke seep out of his mouth, sucking it back in through his nose, and out his mouth again. “Did you ever meet my Sebastian, John?”

                  John stayed hunched over, his arms cross tightly across his aching stomach. He had no idea what Moriarty was getting at. “He was your…gunman,” John said warily. _And lover, according to Sherlock’s taunts at the school_ , John thought.

                  “More than any old gunman. The best. My right-hand man. My bodyguard.” Jim put the hookah pipe down and rose, walking slowly past John, letting his fingers drag across the back of John’s shoulders. “Want to know why I lured you here, John?”

                  John flinched at the touch. He blinked slowly. The damn smoke was infiltrating his brain, making it hard to think straight. “To lure Sherlock, so you two can play your games and…but then why didn’t you tell _him_ that you took Hamish?” John lolled his head over to look at Moriarty. He felt sluggish and stupid as he watched Jim return to his spot on the sofa and look over at John hungrily.

                  “Oooh, very good, pet. I didn’t tell him because I don’t _want_ him.” Jim locked his eyes with John’s. “I want you. I need a replacement for Sebastian. You’re an army man, a good shot, used to following orders, not a complete idiot—at least going by _this_ century’s standards. And I want your son. Hamish has potential. Then again, any spawn of Sherlock’s would, am I right?” He leaned in to take another drag from the hookah as John stared at him, flabbergasted.

                  John began laughing. It was all too absurd. “No! You think I’m just going to come _work_ for you? Help you make plans to kill innocent people, to kill _Sherlock_?” John contemplated blearily what he would do if he had to choose between keeping Sherlock alive and Hamish alive. The thought was grim.

                  “You haven’t even heard the best part.” Jim blew the smoke in John’s direction, noting his glassy, drooping eyes. “If you and Hamish come quietly, I’ll spare Sherlock. I’ll leave him alone _forever._ Crimes can be committed anywhere. You, little Hamish and I can relocate and Sherlock can live a life of peace and safety. The decision is up to you. If you agreed to become my employee, I would pay you handsomely, and of course Hamish will attend only the best schools.” Jim paused to let this sink in, then dropped his voice to an icy snarl. “ _Or_ you can watch Sherlock die. And make no mistake, Doctor Watson, I _will_ make you watch.”

                  John closed his eyes, his breathing falling short. When he opened his eyes, Jim was standing over him, and John felt weak and sick to his stomach. “Y-you’ve never managed to kill him before. Why should I believe you?” John looked up at him tiredly.

                  “Do you really want to test me?” He leaned towards John, bracing his arm on the sofa back. “Care to gamble your lover’s life? If so, by all means, turn down my offer. It could be fun! Maybe I’ll just kill you _both_. I might like to raise Hamish by myself. It’s your call, Doctor Watson.”

                  Jim’s face was far too close now. John turned away, desperately racking his brain for some loophole, some way out. “Why do you want me? I’d fight you…every step of the way I’d fight you. You’d get tired of me and kill me anyway. You’d get…” John forced his eyes to stay open. “You’d get bored and go after Sherlock again.”

                  Jim considered this, as if he hadn’t already thought about it. “Mmm, no, I don’t think that’s true at all. I rarely get tired of prizes. Just knowing that _I’d_ have you and not _Sherlock_ …mm, sends shivers down my spine!”

                  John found a chink of hope. Of course, Sherlock would come and find Hamish and him, even if John wasn’t able to run away. “Sherlock will find us. He always does.”

                  Jim grinned. John’s armor was weakening steadily.

                  “Oh, don’t get your hopes up, dear. Of course I’ll take precautionary steps. Have him watched, make sure he knows you’re with me, and of course, promise him that I’ll have you both killed if I think he’s getting too curious.” Jim touched John’s chin, tilting his face up towards him. “And I _do_ keep promises, John.”

                  John shivered. “If you expect me to…mold to your will like Sebastian, you’re going to be disappointed.”

                  “Every horse can be broken,” Jim drawled. “It’ll be nice having a doctor on call,” he mused.

                  “I’ll never stop hating you,” John said. The heavy opium smoke was getting to him, clouding his brain. He was finding it harder and harder to stay conscious. He was vaguely aware that Jim had sidled in to sit beside him, gripping his shoulders to keep him sitting upright.

                  “You don’t have to like me to follow orders.”

                  John closed his eyes, weighing his options as he fought to keep his thoughts together. There were no good options. He opened his eyes, blinking back tears. “Will I—get to say goodbye?”

                  “Ooh, John, does this mean you’ve agreed to my little proposal?” Jim said giddily, propping John’s chin up with his hand.

                  John blinked at him sorrowfully. He wanted desperately to sleep, to wake up and have this all melt away as a strange, terrible dream. “Will I get to say goodbye?” he repeated.

                  “I’ll pass on a message for you. Last words.”

                  John couldn’t do this. He couldn’t think of saying last words to Sherlock. He finally fumbled out, “Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him…that I’ll see him soon.” He struggled to look up at Jim as defiantly as he could.

                  Jim sneered down at him. “ _Adorable._ I’ll tell him. And I’ll be sure to give him a kiss for you as well.”

                  John shook his head, closing his eyes once more.

                  “Shhh…sleep, John…you did the right thing. What fun we’re going to have.”

                  John felt a hand brushing through his hair, then he slumped into the sofa, giving in to unconsciousness.


	4. For Keeps

When Mary answered the knock at the door and looked up at the man grinning at her, she new exactly who it was. He matched Sherlock’s description perfectly, and she remembered Sherlock’s warnings all too vividly. She gripped the doorframe tightly to steady herself. “May—may I help you?” She was so frightened that she forgot to curtsey, and hastily tacked on, “…Sir?”

                  Jim let his eyes slowly slide down Mary’s figure and back up to her eyes, wetting his lips. “Sherlock warned you about me, did he? How considerate.” He raised an eyebrow and stepped forward, pushing his way inside. “Is he in, love? I’ve got some rather interesting news concerning Doctor Watson and Hamish.” He let his eyes wander up the stairs before turning them back on Mary, his gaze suddenly harsh.

                  Mary blushed at his rude gaze, then dropped her eyes to the floor and nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “What’ve you done with John and Hamish…sir?”

                  Jim took a step closer so that their shoes were nearly touching. They were improperly close. He removed his hat and tipped his neck to both sides, cracking it loudly, then moved his lips to whisper in her ear, his voice cold and low. “That’s not really any of your business, is it?”

                  Mary shuddered, stepping away from him. She kept her head down, too terrified to look him in the eyes. “N-no, sir. He’s upstairs, sir.”

                  “There’s a good girl.” Jim smiled and handed her his hat, then ran his palms across his hair and set up the stairs. He didn’t bother to knock, simply pushing the door open to find Sherlock idly plucking the strings of his new violin, his slender back to the door. Sherlock didn’t turn around at the sound of the door opening. “Jim. Apologies for not putting the kettle on.”

                  Jim boredly scanned the room. “I miss the skull motif. It was such a nice touch.”

                  Sherlock finally stood up, giving the mostly-bare fireplace mantel a once-over before finally turning to Jim, hands clasped behind his back. “Look at you—positively glowing. In the middle of a new scheme, I take it.” He tilted his head, considering his enemy.

                  Jim gave Sherlock a playful smile, looking almost bashfully at the floor then back up at him. “Look at you—Sherlock Holmes. I _did_ miss you, you know. It just wasn’t the same without you. See, at _first_ it was fun. Victorian London was a shiny new toy to play with. It had new places to see, new people to kill, new items to steal…but you know something, Sherlock? Things never change…” Jim’s voice rose and he paced to the window. “ _PEOPLE_ never change! It’s boring, isn’t it?!”

                  Sherlock gave a brief twitch of a smile. He was, in some dark way, glad to see the consulting criminal again as well.

                  Jim turned back to Sherlock. “I’m going to miss this, our games, your guesses, all the flirting…”

                  “What do you mean, you’ll miss it? Is this some threat to kill me again?” Sherlock asked, disappointed. He’d expected something less dull from Jim.

                  “Where have the wife and kid gone off to, Sherlock?” Jim asked, his voice nasal and taunting. “Bright little Hamish and his dear doctor dad?”

                  “John’s working, Hamish at school. Obviously. If you insist on the idle chit-chat, I’ll have to toss you out. Don’t bore me.”

                  Jim grinned and laughed. “Working and at school. The day’s getting a bit late, isn’t it? Or had you been too wrapped up in your head to mind the clock again, my dear?” He tapped his fingers against his lips in mock concern. “Where could they be?”

                  Sherlock glanced at the clock mantel. He had let the time slip away. John and Hamish both should have been back at least an hour ago. He clenched his jaw briefly. “Obvious.” He muttered under his breath. “Stupid…you want me in exchange for them.” It was a tired ploy, but he’d fallen for it all the same. Sherlock berated himself as he grabbed his coat. What a fool he’d been. Moriarty out on the loose, and he’d completely neglected John and Hamish. “Well, I won’t disappoint.”

                  Jim laughed once more, utterly pleased by Sherlock’s response. He shook his head and smiled. “Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock.” Jim’s eyes flashed. “I don’t want _YOU_!”

                  He stepped toward him, enjoying the unnerved look creeping into Sherlock’s face.  “What fun would _that_ be? A simple grab and switch? No, no, no…not my style at _all_ … I’m uh… _keeping_ them…you see.” He ran his hand over his jaw, then his mouth curled into a wicked grin at Sherlock’s dumbfounded expression.

                  Sherlock stared at him in shock for a moment, then shook his head. “Hamish, I can understand that. He likes you, and of course you would want to keep your rival’s son. As a prize, as a protégée—“

                  “Ooh, right on the money, Sherlock—“

                  “But what makes you think you can keep _John_? An ex-soldier who hate you, under your control?!” Sherlock laughed wildly. “The Master must have forgotten a few brain cells when he restored you, Jim.”

                  Jim smiled placidly. “It was _John’s_ decision, not mine. I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

                  “You threatened him?” Sherlock stepped closer to Jim.

                  “If you consider riches and a good school for Hamish a threat… _really_ I just offered him Sebastian’s old position.” Jim met Sherlock’s eyes from under his brow and bit his bottom lip, licking it and slowly drawing it out of his mouth, hoping to strike a nerve.

                  In one of swift move, Sherlock grabbed Moriarty by his jacket and shoved him against the wall. “ _Don’t lie to me,_ ” Sherlock snarled.

                  Jim squealed with joy at Sherlock’s reaction, some taunting laughter escaping his lips. He shrugged as best as he could, pinned as he was. “All right, you’ve caught me…I _may_ have given him the impression that if he doesn’t do what I say, I will kill you… _and_ possibly Hamish, although I’d really rather prefer to keep him around…you know…” He frowned up at Sherlock mockingly. “…Teach him some tricks of the trade, raise him as my own. I might have to change his name, though. The name _Hamish_ makes me want to gag _._ How does James Junior sound to you?”

                  Sherlock pressed him harder against the wall. _His son_ was not going to be taken in by this monster. “What happens if I kill you right now? No mobile phones or computer codes to signal your lackeys.”

                  Jim winced as his head slammed against the wall. “Um, _ow!_ Don’t be predictable Sherlock, it’s unbecoming on a man of your caliber. If I don’t walk out of here in an allotted amount of time—unharmed, I might add—“ he looked down pointedly at his own feet, which were now barely grazing the floor. “—They will kill John. I know, not my most creative bit of work, but it’s certainly effective…isn’t it?”

                  Sherlock yanked his hands away, letting Jim fall back to his feet, and Jim straightened his suit, annoyed. “We both know this little arrangement can’t last long. I will find you within a day with the whole of Scotland Yard at my back. Child abduction warrants a long jail sentence, even in 1895. Don’t tell me you expect me to let you leave with John and Hamish.”

                  “That’s exactly what I expect. I’ve got people watching you, Sherlock. I’ve told them to keep an eye on you and if you start getting too curious, or looking too hard, you’ll be killed.”

                  “That would be ambitious of them,” Sherlock sneered.

                  Jim smiled. “You’re only a bag of bones like the rest of us, Sherlock. Although…perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’ll just tell them to start by getting rid of that lovely housekeeper you’ve got. Cute little thing, isn’t she? And of course, I could give my men the option of _not_ killing her.“ he dropped his voice to a serious deadpan. “I’m sure she could provide…other services. And your landlord, your _dear_ little writer friend, could be offed next if you persist. Also, know that if I hear that you’re not behaving, I’ll kill John and send you his face in the post. I don’t _need_ another Sebastian, it would just be terribly convenient.”

                  Sherlock’s heart dropped, but he succeeded in maintaining his cold, masklike expression. “Why bother keeping me alive at all then? Why not kill me now? There’s nothing to stop you.”

                  “ _Because_ , Sherlock, this is _so_ much more fun… _and_ … if you’ll recall, I don’t think I ever _properly_ burned the heart out of you.” Jim looked irritated, then closed his eyes for a moment, crooning, “Nooo, I didn’t get that quite right before.” He glared at Sherlock’s chest and jabbed a finger at it twice. “It’s still _there._ Beating away.” He sighed, then brushed off and straightened Sherlock’s lapels. “Ah, well. If at first you don’t succeed…” His mouth drifted into a grin.

                  Sherlock’s eyes were hard as he stared with malice into Jim’s. He enunciated firmly, “As long as John and Hamish are alive and I am alive, Jim, you will not be able to rest. _I_ will not rest until you are dead on the ground and I have burned away every last scrap of you. I will blot your name from the past and the future. You are _not winning this._ ”

                  Jim drew back, mock surprise on his face, his mouth forming an “O.” “That sounded like a _threat,_ my dear! As much as I could go on about how amusing that is, I really must be off. We wouldn’t want my men to think you’d done something nasty to me and prematurely slit John’s throat, would we? How embarrassing!”

                  Sherlock glared at him. He felt powerless, and he loathed it.

                  Jim turned to leave, then pivoted back. “Oh, one more thing, almost slipped my mind! I have a message for you from John.” He grinned, then mimicked John’s voice, throwing in a few sniffles. “I’m sorry, and I’ll see you soon…” He sneered, then stepped closer. “And this is from him as well.”

                  To Sherlock’s horror, Jim stepped closer, leaned up and softly kissed him. Their lips only met for a moment before Sherlock shoved him away, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “You’ll be seeing me soon, Jim,” he spat out.

                  Jim giggled and stepped backwards toward the door. “No, you won’t. John, Hamish, and I won’t be seeing you ever again. Isn’t sharing fun? I should’ve thought this up _ages_ ago! If anyone enters or exists this building in the next hour, consider him dead. Ta-ta!”

                  He waltzed out, leaving Sherlock standing in shock. When Jim reached the bottom of the steps, he sidled up to Mary, who was listening fearfully, her face blanched. He touched her chin so that she was staring up at him, then ran his thumb softly along it. “If you value your life, dear, I wouldn’t recommend letting anyone in or out of that door for a while.” He smirked as Mary shuddered, taking his hat from her trembling hands, then strolled out of 221B whistling.

                  Sherlock watched from the window as Jim got into a hansom cab and disappeared. Was John in the cab? He couldn’t bear the thought of John being so close but being unable to help him. And Hamish, too. It was too much.

                  He stalked over to the kitchen table and upturned it in a swift, violent movement, getting only mild satisfaction as it hit the wooden floor with a thudding crash.

                  Mary timidly entered the room a moment later, keeping close to the doorway. “Mr. Holmes…?” she ventured.

                  Sherlock fell to the floor to sit, and stared lamely at his violin. His voice was dazed. “He took them, Mary. He took both of them.”

                  “Doctor Watson and Hamish? _How?”_ Mary took a few steps closer, then lowered herself down next to the distraught man.

                  “He wanted to burn me. Burn the heart out of me.” Sherlock stared at the fireplace darkly.

                  Mary rested a hand on his shoulder, a lump in her throat. She tried to clear it and to keep her voice steady. “I’m…I’m sure everything will turn out all right. If anyone can find them, you can. All those stories John’s told Mr. Doyle about you…if they’re true…everything will be all right.”

                  Sherlock sat in despair for a few more moments, then it was as if Mary’s words finally found him, and he sprang to his feet. He immediately began pacing, fingers steepled under his chin. “You’re right. There’s a way, there’s always a way. There’s always a chink in the armor— _think!_ I’ve been stupid, Mary, so bloody stupid. He has the advantage now, but he is not going to come out on top. He can’t.”

 


	5. New Life

                  John opened his eyes groggily and found himself slumped over in the seat of a hansom cab. Moriarty watched him from the seat across. “Welcome to the beginning of a whole new life, Johnny,” Jim said, brushing his knees against John’s.

                  John jolted upright. Everything in the opium den came back to him, and he realized with a heavy sadness that none of it had been a dream, that there was no escaping. He wanted to see where they were going—how far were they from Baker Street? Were they even _in_ London still? But the cab curtains were drawn, so he sat back in the seat and looked at Jim, keeping his sorrow hidden behind a neutral mask.

                  “Glad to see you’ve decided to be complacent,” Jim smiled. “When we reach our destination, you will tell Hamish that Sherlock died. If you lie or try to slip in some sort of extra information, I’ll make sure Sherlock dies for real.”

                  Half an hour alter, they arrived at a townhouse. It wasn’t particularly lavish or extravagant, but there was a posh, sophisticated air about it. It was one of several that Jim owned in London, but it was the one he resided in the most frequently.

                  Once inside, Jim led John up the stairs and pushed open a door to a large furnished bedroom. “That’s yours for tonight. Hamish is across the hall.”

                  Jim crossed to the door to knock, but Hamish had already poked his head out at the sound of voices. Jim gave John a meaningful look as Hamish ran to give his dad a hug.

                  “Dad, what’s going on?”

                  John held Hamish for a while before speaking, relieved that he was here and safe. He tried to get words to come out, but the lie got caught in his tongue. Jim rolled his eyes, unseen by Hamish, and took a knee next to Hamish.

                  “Professor Moriarty! What are you doing here?” Hamish looked at him, then back to John. “Where are we? Where’s…” he eyed Jim and remembered to say, “Uncle Sherlock?”

                  Jim reached out to place a hand on Hamish’s head and ran it through his hair. John’s rage flared up. He wanted to shove Moriarty away and tell him to never touch his child again, but he could only watch as Jim said in a sad voice, “Hamish, your father, Sherlock—“

                  Hamish’s eyes widened, worried that he must’ve let it slip that Sherlock was his dad. He whispered to John, “Dad, I didn’t tell him—“

                  John ran his thumb along Hamish’s shoulder. “Shh, Hamish, it’s okay, he knows. Hamish, Sherlock is…” he met his son’s eyes. He was about to tell a lie that would break his son’s heart and scar him forever. Hamish might never forgive him for this. There was still a part of John that would never forgive Sherlock for faking his own death. Now he was perpetuating that lie with someone else.

                  He glanced up at Moriarty, whose eyes were laughing at him, taunting him.

                  “Your father is…dead.”

                  Hamish frowned, his mouth popping open. “What—no, I just saw him this morning! He told me goodbye before I went to school…” Hamish looked over at Jim, who had rearranged his face into a sad, pitying expression.

                  “I’m _so_ sorry, Hamish. He was working on a case…he was shot.”

                  Hamish’s eyes went wide and he swung his head back to John, hoping he’d deny it. “…Dad?”

                  John couldn’t do this. He used his thumb to wipe away the beginning of a tear at Hamish’s eye, then glared over at Jim. “For God’s sake, can you give us a few minutes of privacy? Can’t I comfort my son alone?”

                  Jim rolled his eyes at Hamish’s back. “Of course.” He gently patted Hamish on the head, then threw John a threatening look before heading back down the stairs.

                  Tears were pouring from Hamish’s eyes as he searched John’s face. “Are you sure, Dad? How d’you know it’s not a trick? How d’you know he isn’t faking it, like last time?”

                  John began to weep too, unsure if it was his son’s tears or his own worries that he might never see Sherlock again that sent him over the edge. “Hamish, he’s gone—all right? He’s gone.” He pulled Hamish to him and hugged him tight, sobbing now. Sherlock really was gone. Not dead, but gone all the same. “And I don’t know what’s going to happen to us now. Just please, _please_ remember…Professor Moriarty is _not_ your friend. You can’t trust him. He’s going to try to be a father to you, and maybe it will be best if you put a trusting attitude on around him, but _don’t_ trust him.” He pulled back to look at Hamish fiercely. “He is _not_ your father, and he does _not_ want what’s best for you.”

                  He rocked Hamish back and forth in his embrace, feeling worse than when Sherlock had “died.” That had been a cold, empty space, and this was a hot burning thing that consumed his insides, rage with no viable outlet.

                  Hamish nodded his tear-stained face into John’s shoulder, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck. His breath hitched. “It’s not fair! I finally got my dads! It’s not fair, it’s not—“ his mumblings became less coherent as he sobbed into John’s shoulder, his face red and his nose running.

                  It was a good while before John could collect himself enough to draw back, wiping his own tears and then wiping off Hamish’s. “This isn’t the time for crying now, son. We need to be brave together, like soldiers. Can you be brave for me, Hamish?”

                  Hamish sniffed and nodded, wiping his nose off on his sleeve. “Are—are we going to live here now? Is this…Professor Moriarty’s house?”  
                  “No. We’re leaving London to live somewhere else.” John didn’t want to admit that he had no idea where. “Come on.” He helped Hamish to his feet, then stood up himself. He looked down at the small boy. He was so young. Too young for everything he’d already felt and lost in life. He knew it would be worse to tell Hamish the truth and watch him die, but at the moment it was hard to imagine anything worse than breaking his son’s heart.

                  “Why can’t we go home?”

                  “We have to go where Moriarty tells us to. We have to do what he says,” John led Hamish down the hallway.

                  “But why?”

                  John couldn’t think of a suitable answer, so he remained silent, beginning to explore the upstairs. His bedroom was fairly large, and two doors away from what John assumed was Moriarty’s bedroom. He took mental notes of which floorboards creaked, and began testing Moriarty’s door for creakiness, seeing how easy it would be to sneak in during the night and possibly try to kill him.

                  All the while Hamish held tightly to John’s hand. Eventually, they returned downstairs to find Jim at his desk, writing. He gave Hamish a small, sad smile. “Would you like to decide what’s for dinner, Hamish?”

                  “C-can we have steak and kidney pie?” Hamish ventured, and John squeezed his hand.                 

                  “Of course, I’ll tell the kitchen.” He left the room and returned a moment later. “They’ll start dinner preparations at once. John—a word?”

                  John eyed Hamish and gave a quick nod, following Moriarty out of the room.

                  Moriarty shut the door to the small library they were now in.

                  “Now that was fun, wasn’t it? He seemed to take it rather well. Boys do bounce back from things like that.”

                  John glared at him with hatred, and Jim raised an eyebrow at him, looking him over as if assessing him. “Did you successfully find all the creaky bits? Watch out—sometimes my door squeaks if you open it too far.”

                  John swallowed nervously. “I wasn’t—“

                  “Don’t play dumb. If I thought you were _that_ dense, I wouldn’t have bothered with you. Just know that before you do anything rash tonight, I have arranged for Sherlock, Mary, and the man you were renting from to all be taken care of should something happen to me, be it murder, accident or otherwise. So be on your best behavior, Johnny, because if I go…so do they. Understood?”

                  John nodded, not meeting his eye. Of course. Stupid. Jim had thought of everything, _noticed_ everything. Like Sherlock.

                  “That’s a good boy,” Jim smiled, patting John’s cheek.

 

                  A couple weeks later, Jim, John and Hamish were settled in to a Dublin townhouse fairly similar to the one in London. John and Hamish had to share a room for a few nights. Hamish cried himself to sleep on their last night together, nestled up against John.

                  The next morning he was sent to an upper-class, irrationally expensive boarding school on the other side of the city. Jim footed the bill. John’s heart tore in half as he assured his son that everything would be fine, that he’d still see him on weekends. He hoped to God that Jim would give him that at least.

                  It wasn’t until the fifth day in Dublin that Jim gave John his first assignment.

                  By now, John had learned the conditions and expectations of his position as bodyguard and assassin. He’d started calling Jim, with no suggestion from him, “sir.” When Moriarty asked him why, John said, “You’re my boss, aren’t you?”

                  It was easier for John to cope if he gave Moriarty a title besides “tormentor” or “arch enemy.” Jim bought John a wardrobe of fine clothes and saw that he was fed nourishing meals to keep him healthy. John had tried a brief stint of starvation, but that was quickly extinguished with the usual threats. Now John cleaned his plate and was doing push-ups every morning, his old military routine. It was easier to think of himself as a soldier again, not asking too many questions, not letting morals creep into his head.

                  But at nights, alone in bed, thoughts of Sherlock would return, either in bad dreams or those dark, quiet spaces before and after sleep, and it was all John could do to keep from breaking down. He maintained his stoic demeanor outside, but inside it felt like Moriarty was already breaking him down, piece by piece.

 

                  One morning, John came down the stairs to see Jim writing a letter furiously, blots of ink splashing onto the page. Without looking up at him he held out a piece of paper with his right hand, still scrawling at the paper with his left, and said, bored, “Kill this man. Keep it clean. Can’t have it leading back to me.”

                  John accepted the piece of paper and broke his own rule. He asked a question. “Why does he have to die?”

                  Jim's eyes didn't stray from the page. “Not that it’s any of your business—but Kellan O’Connery is a thieving bastard. Get rid of him.” He stopped writing to look at him. “Is there a _problem_ , John?”

                  John shook his head and answered blandly, “No, sir. He’ll be dealt with.”

                  “ _Don’t call me that,_ ” Jim snapped in a threatening voice that threw John off-guard for a moment.

                  “I’m sorry. What did Sebastian call you?”

                  Jim finished writing before folding the letter and dripping sealing wax on the envelope, not bothering to look up.

                  “Jim. My name is Jim.” He pressed his ring against the melted wax.

                  “Fine then. It’s done. Jim.”

                  John about-faced subconsciously and left. He found the man and did the job, making an effort not to dwell on it. He didn’t let himself wonder if the man had a family or not. He’d kept his distance. Just another body, he’d thought.

                  Jim seemed surprised when John came back so quickly, wearing the same graven face as before. “He’s dead.” 

                  “That was fast. How’d you do it?” Jim leaned back, seemingly mildly interested.

                  “I followed him out of the gambling house, tracked his route, found a high-up secluded location and fired. Clean shot through the head. Left before they could determine where the shot had come from.”

                  “Clean. Efficient. Good. You can have the rest of the day off. I don’t need you for anything else at the moment.”

                  John knew exactly where he’d go. He had enough money to take a carriage to Hamish’s school and visit.


	6. Recovery

                  More often than not, Jim gave John most Fridays off, so every other week John picked up a habit of visiting Hamish in the afternoon, not coming back until after dinner, when all of Jim’s lackeys and employees had returned to their respective homes. It was on one of these nights that John came home to find the front door slightly ajar.

                  John pushed it open slowly, stopping just before the point where it began to creak, and slipped into the townhouse. He silently picked up the gun stored in the desk and began searching the quiet house, his feet noiseless. It wasn’t until he reached the kitchen that he saw Jim, passed out on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

                  There were two bullet wounds in his shoulder. Jim had dug out one of the bullets, and it was now lying on the floor next to a slicked-red knife.

                  John’s heart leaped. This was his chance. He could take Hamish and leave! But Moriarty’s men might think it was him. Was it worth the risk? John suddenly had vivid images of returning home with Hamish only to discover that Sherlock had already been killed. Or heading off to the school and finding that Hamish had been killed. His stomach lurched.

                  He stood over Jim for a moment, giving his arm a light kick, then reached down to feel at Jim’s wrist for a pulse. It was so faint that it took several moments to find it. He bent and scooped Jim up, sweeping the dining room table clear with one hand so he could lay him out on it. He ran back to the kitchen to grab towels to staunch the bleeding, stepping over the pool of blood, then rushed off to fetch his med bag and returned to pull of Jim’s jacket, waistcoat and shirt.

                  John’s mouth was dry as he examined the bullet wounds. It wasn’t a lethal shot by any means, but Jim had lost a great deal of blood. What if he couldn’t save him? Would Jim’s men ever believe him? There wasn’t an exit wound for either bullet, so he carefully extracted the second bullet, then cleaned, disinfected, and tidily patched up the wounds with some neat stitches.

 

                  By the time Jim awoke, John had laid him on his bed, and it took him some time to remember what had happened. The pain in his shoulder was a convenient reminder, especially when he took deep breaths and the skin pulled at the wound, worsening the pain.

                  “ _GOD FUCKING DAMMIT—BASTARDS!_ – _FUCK_!” It was then that Jim noticed John sitting stone-faced, in the corner of the room, watching him.

                  Breathing hard through his nose, Jim said, “I imagine this was your doing?” he gestured at his shoulder vaguely.

                  “Of course. I’m your medic. Now that you’re awake, I imagine you’d like some painkillers.”

                  Jim squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. “Yes.”

                  John sighed as he opened his medical bag. He’d been shocked at what the Victorians considered useful drugs; they used many painkillers to the point that they were addictive and harmful. But, he’d learned, he could use a small dosage of laudanum as an effective painkiller, provided he didn’t overuse it.

                  He dropped out a few bitter drops onto Jim’s tongue, then gave him a glass of water. As Jim drifted back to sleep, John resumed his spot, keeping vigil until Jim had completely lost consciousness.

                  The next day, when John informed Jim that he was to stay in bed and rest, Jim let a steady string of curses fly at him, but followed his orders and stayed in bed, grumbling about boredom and work and taking more laudanum than he could possibly need.

                  John was bothered by how much this reminded him of Sherlock, but was also somewhat pleased to know that Jim trusted him enough, or at least his medical opinion, to do what he said. John gave him three more days in bed, partially because he needed them, but partially so Jim was out of his hair, and Jim begrudgingly obliged.

                  During the three days John spent extra time with Hamish and thought endlessly of Sherlock. He almost felt like a free man. He wanted to write to him. He wanted to _call_ him, hear his annoyed voice. At this point, he would settle for any sort of news from him.

                  A couple of days later, as John was re-stitching a popped seam over one of Jim’s wounds, he finally asked, “Who shot you, Jim?”

                  “One of Patrick Cassey’s lackeys,” Jim winced.

                  John was familiar with the name. Cassey was a low-life crime lord out of Cork that dealt with Jim on a fairly regular basis.

                  “Do you want me to take care of Cassey, sir? I mean, Jim?”

                  Jim’s eyes narrowed and they trailed up to John’s face, assessing him. “You get a kick out of this, don’t you? It gives you a rush—brings you back to the war. You enjoy the hunt, don’t you Dr. Watson?” John’s jaw tightened as he tied off the stitching and clipped it. Jim was right, and John hated himself for enjoying any of it.

                  “Kill him,” Jim said flippantly.

                  “Of course. I imagine he’s in Cork by now, or en route. Do you trust me to make the trip, sir?”

                  Jim growled fiercely, “ _STOP CALLING ME THAT!”_

                  “Sorry—old habits.” He handed Jim his shirt and helped him pull it on—movement in his shoulder was still restricted. “Can I ask why you hate the title…Jim?”

                  Jim stood and began buttoning up his shirt. John didn’t think he was going to answer, but when he reached the last button he said, staring straight ahead, “Because my father was ‘sir,’ and I—“ Jim’s eyes flashed dangerously as they met John’s. “—am NOT that low-life, drunken, belligerent scum bag.”

                  A long-unused muscle at the corner of John’s mouth twitched in the hint of a smile, imagining what Sherlock’s response would be upon learning that Moriarty had daddy issues. The twitch was quickly gone, however, and John nodded. “Point taken, boss. It won’t happen again.”

                  “It better not, or I’ll cut out your tongue.” Jim said the words lightly, but John shivered, knowing that he meant them. “Gannon and O’Seanassy will go with you. Clean up _everything_ and _everyone_.” He pulled on his waistcoat, turned to leave, then looked back at John. “Hamish’s school goes on holiday starting next weekend, so if you don’t want me alone with your son, I suggest you hurry.”

                  John gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted was Jim to have any alone time with his son, feeding him poisoned lies, teaching him how to manipulate or kill or acquire. He would do the job as quickly as he could.

                 

                  The job was harder than expected, even with Gannon and O’Seanassy’s help. John didn’t return until the day after Hamish got back, and his throat was so bruised that he had difficulty speaking or swallowing. He also sported a large gash across his back, but he couldn’t see it to tell if he needed stitches or not.

                  As soon as he arrived back at the townhouse—John still refused to think of it as “home”—he limped to his room and hurriedly tried to clean his battered hands and face before Hamish could see. The water in the ceramic washbasin was soon a rusty color from the blood of several different people.

                  “There’s blood seeping through your shirt,” came a bored drawl from the doorway.

                  John straightened and reached behind his back to touch the dampness in the middle of his back. “Dammit,” he murmured, then began unbuttoning his shirt as Jim walked over to him.

“How’s Hamish?” John asked, coughing from the small amount of talking. He tried to clear his throat and found it extremely painful.

                  “He’s fine; in the kitchen now,” Jim said. “I told him you were delivering an important message for me in Cork.” He cocked his head to the side, his mouth curling into a small smile. “Which, I suppose you _were._ And it all went as planned, I hear.”

                  “Not all, but the end result was the same,” John said, working off his shirt with some difficulty. He didn’t want to undress in front of Jim, but redressing so he could see his son had taken higher priority.

                  John could feel Jim’s eyes on him as he examined the bloodstains in the shirt. “How bad is my back?”

                  Jim stepped behind him, and John shivered. Even though he’d gotten more or less used to working for Jim, he didn’t like having Jim out of his line of vision, and so close to him. He could feel Jim’s breath on his neck and his fingers tracing along the edge of the wound.

                  “You won’t need stitches, Dr. Watson,” Jim said. To John’s surprise, he helped John wrap gauze around his chest to staunch the bleeding, his fingers quick and nimble.

                  “Take a day off,” he said when he was finished, and disappeared down the stairs.                 

                  John looked at himself in the mirror, shocked at how worn and weary he looked. He pulled a fresh shirt on, double-checked the mirror to make sure the gauze was keeping the blood at bay, then hurried to the kitchen to see Hamish, who rushed into his arms for a hug.

                  Hamish pulled away. “Dad, what happened to you?”

                  “I’m okay,” John rasped. “I had an accident, but I’ll be fun. How was—“ John stopped to cough and clear his throat. “How was school? I missed you.”

                  “It’s good. Jim is telling me what stuff is true and what stuff is false that they think is true!”

                  “You call him Jim now?” John murmured, smoothing his hand through Hamish’s hair.

                  Hamish pulled John over to the table to show him a thick stack of glowing school reports, research activities, Latin class readings, and biology sketches.

                  John refrained from talking too much to preserve his voice, but he hugged Hamish as often as he could, and after dinner, which was dominated by Hamish’s conversation—Jim was absent—John told Hamish how proud he was of him.

                  “Dad…can I sleep in your room tonight?”

                  John hugged him tightly. “I would like that very much.”

                  That night, John felt happier than he had in a long while. He curled around to protect his son’s body while he slept, not minding the pain in his back. If nothing else, John thought, he had kept his son safe so far. He had killed and done other unspeakable things, and he had abandoned Sherlock, but his son was safe in his arms, and that was almost enough for the moment.

                  Over the next week, Jim continued to give him assignments, but John knew he would be able to see Hamish afterwards. Every day he hurried to scrub blood off his hands. It was often the blood of criminals, but sometimes it was the blood of innocent people, people who didn’t deserve to die. Every day John watched the water in the washing bowl turn pink and thought ruefully what a crap doctor he was, taking lives instead of saving them.

                  Then he would go out and see Hamish, and he would see Sherlock’s eyes when Hamish looked up at him, and John would think, “I’m doing this for you. For both of you.”

                  Evenings with Hamish were heaven. They read books and John croaked out stories, his voice growing stronger every day, and every night they curled up to sleep. The week passed much too quickly.                 

 

                   The week after Hamish left, John woke to the sound of a loud crash from downstairs followed by a shout of rage. John quickly dressed and went downstairs. He tentatively looked around the corner into the drawing room to see Jim is angrily pacing back and forth, kicking things that get in his way. John noted the remains of a vase next to a wall, then his eyes flicked back to Jim and found the consulting criminal staring at him dangerously, his usually neat hair sticking up in all directions, as if he’d been clawing his fingers through it over and over. Jim suddenly closed his eyes, then it was as if someone had flipped a switch when he opened them again. His face was serene and he smiled at John, smoothing back his hair. “I’m going out. You can have the day off.”

                  John shivered, instantly reminded of how violent and changeable his boss and captor was. He couldn’t let himself forget that he was living with a madman as unpredictable as a summer storm. He sighed a breath of relief as the door closed, then bent to pick up the vase shards. Several had skittered under Jim’s desk. John crawled under to retrieve them. As he straightened, he noticed a corner of a note poking out from beneath a ledger. Looking to double-check nobody was around, he slid it out to skim it over. As he did, his heart skipped a beat.

                  The letter wasn’t very specific, and clearly part of a chain of correspondence, but it was clear enough that Jim was having trouble with business in London. Apparently since they had left, things had been spiraling out of control in that particular section of Moriarty’s web.

                  “… _two months should be ample time, Professor—I’m sure there will be no need to send over any more of your men…”_

                  John reread that phrase over again. Knowing Moriarty, he would almost certainly send more men back to London, even if was only for a show of power. This could be John’s chance. His chance to see Sherlock, or to at least get a message to him.

                  Hope began to bubble in his chest as he carefully stowed the letter back where he found it, making sure the same amount of paper was sticking out as before. He sat back to think. Jim carefully monitored the mail to make sure he wasn’t sending or receiving anything.

                  John’s mind flickered to Jane, the housekeeper. He jumped from the chair and went to the kitchen, where she was busy chopping vegetables.

                  “Jane. I have a question.”

                  Jane looked at him in surprise. She rarely heard anything out of the tacit gunman. “What is it sir?” She brushed away a strand of frizzy hair from her face.

                  “I wondered if you would be able to, one day, send some letters for me.” He held his breath as he waited for her reply.

                  Jane hardly had all of the details of Jim and John’s arrangement, but she knew that John was being held against his will and that he wasn’t to communicate with anyone outside Jim’s circle. Her voice caught nervously as she stammered, “You-you know you’re not supposed to be sending out mail, sir…I-I…” She put down her vegetable knife, her hands shaking as she thought of what Moriarty would do to her. “…I don’t know, sir…I’m sorry…if Mr. Moriarty found out…I…” She looked at the floor.

                  “He would kill you if he found out,” John said, nodding. “I know I’m asking too much.”

                  If it had been on behalf of anyone else, John would’ve walked away and left her in peace, but this was _Sherlock._ This was his one chance. He had to try. John surprised himself by walking over to grab her shoulders and saying urgently, “Jane. Are you married? Do you have any children?”

                  Jane gave a small nod. “My husband passed…but I’ve got a son…around the same age as your lad—Hamish…”

                  Tears burned in John’s eyes. His voice was fierce. “If you could bring back your husband and keep your son safe, wouldn’t you do anything? _Risk_ anything? Jane, if I’m asking too much, then I will find another way, but I have got to get back to my…wife. And I have to get Hamish away from this man, before he becomes like him. Jane…please…” He gripped her shoulders tightly. It had been ages since he’d been able to tell anyone what was going on in his mind, and admitting how desperate he was now almost put him over the edge. It was everything he could do to keep from collapsing.

                  Jane, startled by the fervency and anguish in John’s voice, nodded. She blinked back a few tears of her own. Of course she wanted to keep her son away from Jim, and she knew all too well what it was like to miss her love. She sniffed and gave another nod. “All right. All right, sir…I can help…what exactly did you want me to do?”

                  John smiled genuinely for the first time since Hamish had been home and squeezed her shoulders affectionately, fighting back the urge to kiss her on the cheek. “All I need is for you to receive and send letters—they’ll be addressed to you, and outgoing ones will be addressed to a fake relative of yours in London—I’ll arrange everything so that Jim never finds out. And it won’t be for a few months, after I go to London…if I can get there. Thank you, Jane. _Thank you_.”

                  He gave her a final look of gratitude and a short nod before leaving the kitchen, thinking. He had, for the most part, gained Jim’s trust as far as a job was concerned, but if Jim was ever going to let him go to London, he would have to believe that John had put Sherlock out of his mind entirely.

                  He would have to convince Jim that he liked him, that he _enjoyed_ his company. It couldn’t be too sudden—Jim would see right through it.

                  John thought about it for the rest of the afternoon, pacing his living room and bedroom, walking up and down the staircase. He wondered how far he would go if it meant seeing Sherlock again. He would need to figure out what Jim wanted from him, and then give it to him as willingly as he was able.

 


	7. Laudanam

                  When Jim came home, he looked bored. He set his hat on the hat stand, then pulled off his coat, blood spattering his shirt. He turned to John, an eyebrow raised as he plucked off his gloves. “Didn’t expect to see _you_ still here.”

                  “I didn’t fancy going out today. Is any of that blood yours, boss?”

                  Jim looked down at himself as if seeing the blood for the first time. His lip curled in disgust. “No…” He ran a finger across on one of the stains, which hadn’t dried, then looked at his red hand. “I _do_ loathe getting my hands dirty…” He raised his finger in front of his face, examining the blood from different angles, then stared darkly into John’s eyes, singing lightly, “Oh well.”

                  John suppressed a shiver. Jim Moriarty had the singular talent of making his every move and word terrifying. He wasn’t sure how he was going to be able to convince such a twisted man that he even somewhat liked him. “Do you need anything from me, Jim?”

                  Jim frowned at him, giving him an annoyed look. “No. Why would I need anything from you? I told you, you’ve got the day off. Go…rescue wounded puppies or pick flowers in a park or do whatever it is that you ordinary people do without your precious tellys and laptops.”

                  John shrugged. “If you need anything, I’ll be in my room.”

                  Jim eyed John somewhat suspiciously as John crossed in front of him and climbed the steps to his bedroom.

 

                  One day, John came home from a rough job to hear Moriarty yelling at Jane in the kitchen. For a panicked moment he thought that Jim had found out that she’d agreed to help John, but when Moriarty came out, John could see he was just in one of his bored rages and braced himself.

                  Jim looked John up and down. John had had to dispatch three men, which had gotten messy, and he’d suffered a few bruises on his face and some shallow cuts across his arm.

                  “And where the HELL have _YOU_ been?! That job should’ve been done _HOURS_ ago!”

                  “Sorry, Jim—he had company. I had to get rid of a few extras.”

                  “A _FEW EXTRAS_? I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO KEEP THIS CLEAN!” Jim took a step forward, and before John had time to react, he took a swing at him, his fist connecting hard with John’s cheekbone.

                  John stumbled black, clutching his face, fighting back every urge to swing back at Jim. He finally muttered angrily, “Won’t happen again, boss.”

                   “That’s not good enough!” Jim barked, grabbing John and punching him again in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. “FIGHT ME BACK! FIGHT ME BACK, YOU FUCKING _COWARD_!”

                  John was doubled over, clutching his stomach and trying to breathe. When he regained an ounce of breath, he clouded over with rage. “You want me to fight back?! Is that an _order_ , _SIR_?” He wound back and punched Jim as hard as he could in the chest, knocking Jim backwards into the wall. _God_ , it felt amazing to hit him. He could beat him for all eternity.

                  Jim was only momentarily taken aback before he fixed his eyes dark eyes on John’s. He laughed and snarled, “ _Yes._ ”

                  When Jim lunged forward to swing at John again, John ducked and swung his legs out to trip him, sending him sprawling to the floor. John was on top of him before he could get up, pinning his wrists to the floor. “Friendly word of advice, boss, don’t pick fights with your hit men!”

                  Moriarty struggled to free himself for a moment, glaring up at John, then a smile broke out on his face. “Oh, John, you are _so_ much more fun than I thought you would be… Now. Get the fuck off of me.”

                  John wanted nothing more than to punch the last fragment of life out of Jim, but he forced himself to stand up, wincing and clutching his stomach. “I’m sorry you’re bored, boss, but these stints always end. Something new always turns up.”

                  Jim gave John a disgusted look before rolling forward and getting to his feet, breathing hard. He dropped onto one of the sofas and glared across the room, arms crossed over his chest, then clawed his fingers through his hair, mussing it from its slicked-back style. “This century is _such_ a bore.”

                  John’s instinct was to leave Jim to rant until he felt better, but it occurred to him that perhaps Jim wanted to voice his complaints to someone. And John was the only one he could complain to. John sighed and sank into a wing-backed chair facing the sofa.

                  “I miss Westwood! And bombs, John! And technology.”

                   “Yeah, me too. Technology, that is. Not so much the bombs or the Westwood.” John missed, funnily enough, jumpers. They certainly existed in 1895, but he’d never seen anyone wearing one. Jumpers must be homemade things wives made for their husbands. Maybe it was a rural fashion. He was surprised to feel his mouth twitching up. It had been a while since he’d thought about something that didn’t involve death or crime or how much he missed Sherlock and Hamish.

                  “And the _weaponry_ ,” Jim continued. “Is it too much to ask for a decent Browning, for God’s sake? Or even just a piece of spearmint gum? How is that not a thing yet?”

                  “You could always chew tobacco, boss. It would turn your teeth a lovely brown,” John said drily. “Maybe it would instill fear in your enemies.”

                  Jim grunted. “Dental hygiene these days is limited enough without getting that shit anywhere near my mouth.” He stood and straightened his waistcoat, then looked down at John.

                  “If you want to make yourself useful, go to the kitchen and order us some dinner.”

                  “What do you want?”

                  “I couldn’t give two fucks.”

                  Jim disappeared, and John breathed a sigh of relief. All things considered, he’d gotten off easy. Bored Jim was the worst kind of Jim; bored Jim carved patterns into peoples’ eyeballs with a knife or set animals on fire or sat down and wrote out an elaborate, disturbing plan that would desecrate all of Ireland if he chose to put it to work.

                  As the weeks went by, John got fewer and fewer assignments, which meant he could visit Hamish more often, but the lack of jobs threw Moriarty into a rage of further boredom, which he dealt with by taking copious amounts of laudanum and sitting on the couch, growing increasingly frustrated and unkempt.

                  This meant that Jim was relatively harmless, but in his current state, John was never going to be assigned to London. And, just because Jim was listless didn’t mean his hired men were. John knew several of them kept close tabs on him, whether he went out or stayed in.

                  After several weeks, John had finally had enough. He stalked over to where Jim was spread on the couch and plucked the laudanum bottle from his hand. “You’re worse than Sherlock, you know that? Get up and stop this.” It had been the first time John had mentioned Sherlock’s name since he’d started working for Jim months ago, but Jim was too out of it to notice.

                  He didn’t fail to notice that his laudanum was no longer in his hands, however, and he lolled his head to look over at John. “Give that back.”

                  “You’ll thank me later.” John pocketed the bottle.

                  Jim raised his eyebrows, his expression slack. “Fine, go ahead and keep that one. It’s not like I don’t have more.”

                  John eyed Jim’s desk and grabbed two more bottles, running to the front door. Jim stumbled after him desperately trying to grab at them. “ _Give them back or I will kill you!_ ” he snarled.

                  This made John falter for a moment. _Would_ Jim kill him? “No…you need a gunman,” he said, then darted past Jim and out into the street, chucking the bottles as far as he could.

                  They both watched the jars shatter on the cobblestones. The glass vials were immediately turned to tiny fragments, trampled by horse hooves and carriage wheels.

                  Jim spun towards John, grabbed his shoulders and slammed him against the outside of the building. “You _FUCKING_ idiot!”

                  John winced, then growled, “Jim, people are staring.”

                  Jim growled and punched the brick next to John’s head before storming back inside.

                  John followed, closing the door behind him. “You’ll thank me later, honestly. Most of these Victorian medicines should be avoided. Trust me, I’m a doctor.” He eyed the bloody scrape on Jim’s knuckles from where he’d punched the wall. “I’ll disinfect that for you.”

                  John grabbed his med bag and took Jim’s hand in his to clean the wound. Jim was still seething, but too bleary to carry out any death threats, so he sat and glared at John. “You’re not the boss of me, John Watson. You work for _me_ , and you let me do what I bloody want.”

                  “Being in a haze all day and night doesn’t instill fear in anyone. Wouldn’t want to lose your reputation,” John pointed out. “Promise me you’ll lay off the drugs.”

                  “Fuck off,” Jim said, snatching his hand away.

                  “I’ll sleep in your room if I have to tonight, Jim. To make sure you don’t take anything else.”

                  “I don’t need a _babysitter_ ,” Jim spat. “Do you know what I did to my babysitters, John? Back when I was tender young boy?”

                  John didn’t respond as he packed away his med bag. Jim was trying to scare him, but John noticed that Jim hadn’t done anything major to stop him so far, and took it as a good sign. He would much rather have a preoccupied, plotting Moriarty on his hands than a bored one.

                 

                  That night, John laid his blanket on the wood floor by Jim’s bed. “I’m a light sleeper. If I hear a drawer opening or the rattle of laudanum bottles, I’ll be up before you can shout.”

                  “This is ridiculous,” Jim muttered. “Go back to your room and _go to bed.”_

                  “Sorry to disobey, but no. You pay me to protect you, so that’s what I’m doing. Good night.” John tossed his pillow on the ground and lay down, rolling the blanket around him.

                  “You’ve got a job tomorrow. I don’t pay you to watch over me, I pay you to be rested and ready to kill. Now go the fuck back to your room, or I’ll make _sure_ you don’t sleep well.”

                  John rolled his eyes. “Great logic, boss.” Jim was too drug-addled to do anything to him at the moment. He settled onto the floor.

                  Jim continued to sit up in bed, glaring down at John. “Get in.”

                  “What?” John blinked.

                  Jim gnashed his teeth together. “Get. In. The bed. If you aren’t going to leave, you are going to sleep in the bed so you’re not stiff and sore and off your game. So. _Get in the bed.”_ He flopped onto the pillow, turning his back to the center of the bed.

                  John, unable to believe he was about to share a bed with Jim Moriarty, stood up hesitantly and slid into the bed, keeping close to the edge and watching the back of Jim’s head warily.

                  The bed _was_ extremely comfortable, probably the most comfortable bed John had ever been in, but just as he was beginning to drift off, Jim turned over to whisper, “If you snore, I’ll stab you.”                 

                  He rolled back over and it took John a very long time to fall asleep. Jim was asleep almost instantly; the laudanum was likely the culprit. John heard him mutter Sebastian’s name a few times, which surprised him. He thought sleepily about Jim and Sebastian’s relationship, trying to imagine Jim acting anything resembling loving to anyone.

                  When John woke up, Jim was frowning over at him.

                  “Erm…morning,” John said, sliding out of bed and falling into his morning routine of push-ups, wondering whether last night’s vigil was a horrible mistake or a step in the right direction. Jim hadn’t stabbed or strangled him, at the very least.

                  Jim didn’t say anything, just sat up and watched him before getting out of bed himself, a mixture of confusion, disgust and curiosity on his face, confusion winning out.

 


	8. Bedfellows

            Once all of Jim’s employees had returned home that night, Jim produced a new bottle of laudanum and cast a curious eyebrow in John’s direction as he dropped a few drops onto his tongue.

                  “You can’t be serious,” John said, stepping over and snatching the bottle away. “Jim. This is childish.”

                  “Does that mean my babysitter will be returning tonight?” Jim asked, eyeing John.

                  “Will a babysitter be needed?”

                  Jim knocked back the rest of his wine from the dinner, and his upper lip twitched. “I haven’t decided yet.” He disappeared upstairs.

                  When John poked his head in Jim’s room, he found him sitting on one side of the bed. He gazed at John for a moment, quizzically. “Well?”

                  John swallowed. If he pretended that he like Jim enough to share a bed with him, Jim might be well pleased. The best friend his former rival, utterly devoted to him. That had to be an attractive offer. As much as it sickened John to think about it, it was the clearest way to Sherlock that he could see so far.

                  John left for his room, and by the time he’d returned in his pyjamas, Moriarty was in bed with his back facing John. He’d left enough room for John on the other side. John crawled carefully into bed, wondering what on earth Jim was thinking at the moment.

                  Jim frowned at the wall, surprised at John’s move. He had never expected to share a bed with John Watson, at least not a John Watson who was willingly there, under the pretense of _protecting_ him from self-abuse.

                  After a moment he said goodnight the same way he had the night before. “Snore and I’ll stab you.”

                  John could see the knife handle poking out beneath Jim’s pillow, but even so, he was able to roll over and fall asleep much faster than he had the night before.

 

                  The next morning, John woke up as Jim was still sleeping. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned towards John, breathing softly. John studied the face of the sleeping psychopath for a moment. It looked like such a harmless face when dormant.

                  John gasped silently when Jim shifted in his sleep and he felt something hard touching him. He carefully lifted the covers, horrified, but was relieved to find only the knife, the hilt pressing against his thigh. Not wanting to get cut by the blade, John was unsure if he should reach down and take it from Jim’s loose grasp, or if he should wake Jim up and risk what Jim would be like when awoken against his will.

                  John settled for gently nudging Jim’s shoulder, deciding it was a safer bet than groping under the sheets near his crotch. “Erm…Jim?”

                  Jim’s eyes groggily slid open, then narrowed at John, whose face is only a few inches away from him. “…What.”

                  “Your knife…sort of…shifted.” He flicked his eyes to the sheets. “Erm…just thought you should know…”

                  Jim didn’t say anything, but John felt his hand move below the sheets. Jim winced, then raised the knife from the covers and lifted it up above his head, still lying on his stomach. For a brief moment, John thought he was going to plunge the knife into him, but Jim stabbed it into the mattress between their pillows instead. Eyes still on John, he brought his knicked thumb up to his lips. He licked a droplet of blood from the cut. “….Good morning, John.”

                  John swallowed and eyed the knife. “I guess I don’t snore, then.” He rolled out of bed, dropping to the floor to do his push-ups.

                  Jim rolled onto his back and pulled the knife from the bed. He held it up to the morning night streaming through the windows, turning it to let the light bounce off the blade and dance along the walls. “No. I guess not.”

                  John didn’t say anything more as he finished his push-ups. He was at the point where he could do fifty without much of a struggle. By the time he was done, Jim had slid out of bed and was tossing on a clean pair of trousers. “Your assignment today is to terminate O’Seanassy. He’s been getting on my nerves.” He scratched the back of his head as he looked through his wardrobe. “He’s been embezzling, naughty boy. He’ll be over around noon. You can do it then if you like, just don’t spatter any blood on the furnishings. Jane’s still trying to get that bloody stain out of the sofa.

                  John nodded, nervous. He’d never killed anyone he’d known for Moriarty before. John followed the still shirtless Jim downstairs in case he had more tasks. John had eaten with, chatted with, and worked alongside O’Seanassy. He wouldn’t call him a friend, but he didn’t relish the idea of killing him.

                  Jim headed into the kitchen to get a bite to eat. Jane, who was standing over the stove making porridge, glanced at her shirtless boss and blushed, averting her eyes to the floor.

                  John didn’t have much of an appetite for breakfast, but as he always did when he struggled to follow Jim’s orders, he forced vivid images of Hamish with his throat slit or Sherlock with a bullet in his head and resolved to obey.

                  John waited with his pistol tucked in the back of his jacket. When O’Seanassy arrived home, John asked him to take a look at some strange papers he had found in the study. When they entered, John let O’Seanassy go first, wasting no time in shooting him in the back of the head before he could turn around.

                  Blood pooled across the Persian rug, staining it, but John knew Jim never cared for it anyway, so he rolled O’Seanassy’s body up in it and dragged it out through the kitchen. He had thought that Jane had gone out to run errands, but she was still there, chopping potatoes. She watched with wide eyes as John silently dragged the rolled rug through the room, but said nothing. She was all too aware of the consequences of Jim’s work, and she must have heard the gunshot minutes before.

                  John hefted the rug and body through the back door. He had already arranged for accomplices to dispose of the body. He met them in the alleyway, paid them their sum, then returned to the kitchen.

                  “Jane, do you have a mop I could use?” John asked, glancing at the small smear of blood that had leaked through the rug onto the kitchen floor.

                  Jane was trembling ever so slightly, but her voice was calm. “I can do it, sir. I’ve done it before.”

                  John’s heart went out to the soft-spoken housekeeper, who was just as trapped as John was. He reached out to touch her face with one hand, his voice gentle. “Jane, please, I’ll take care of it.” When he removed his hand he was horrified to see that he’d left a smear of blood on her cheek. He wiped it off with a dishrag, muttering apologies, then took the mop and quickly scrubbed up, disgusted with himself. He ruefully thought of Lady Macbeth, obsessively washing her hands, trying to get rid of the unseen bloodstains. John could relate. He would never be able to scrub out all the blood, even if he scoured the entire house and himself spotless.

                  When Jim came home at the end of the day, he asked John where the rug in the parlor was.

                  “It got dirty. You were always complaining about it anyway.”

                  Jim tilted his head playfully. “I was just _curious,_ Johnny. No need to get defensive about it. I imagine it got dirty by O’Seanassy’s brains smearing across it?”

                  John nodded, unsmilingly meeting Jim’s eyes. “Yes. Body’s taken care of as well.”

                  “How accommodating of you,” Jim smirked.

                  Later that night, after Jane had cleared up the dinner table and had gone home for the evening, Jim was writing a letter at his desk and John was reading. He had taken to reading much more in his free time, eager for any sort of fictional escape. A knock on the front door echoed through the room, and they turned to look at each other. Jim raised his eyebrows and turned back to his writing, leaving John to answer it.

                  John reflexively grabbed his revolver from an end table and opened the door to reveal a livid man, his freckled face as red as his hair. His voice was a barely-contained snarl. “Are you John Watson?”

                  John nodded slowly, reaching for his gun. He had never seen this man before, but he looked familiar nonetheless. Then it dawned on him. “Are you an…O’Seanassy?” he asked, but before he could fully finish the question, the man had whirled up and punched John in the face, wrestling the gun away from him and training it on his forehead. _Fuck,_ the man was quick.

                  “ _You killed my brother, you piece of shit!_ ” The red-haired man shoved his way inside.                 

                  John’s heart hammered as the safety was released, but before O’Seanassy could fire, his jaw was grabbed from behind and his neck was snapped. He crumpled too the ground and Jim was looking down at him with distaste.

                  John stepped back, alarmed by Jim’s speed and stealth. He was breathing too heavily to speak, but he finally bent down and retrieved his gun from the dead man’s hand. “Thank you,” he said, finding his mouth a little dry.

                  Jim grunted and nudged the body with his shoe, annoyed. “Grab his legs.”

                  Together they carried the man through the kitchen, Jim snatching a half-empty bottle of wine on the way out. They dumped the body in the back alley, making sure not to be seen. Jim propped him up against the wall, then opened the wine and poured some into the man’s mouth, not caring when it sloshed down the man’s front, then put the bottle in his hand. He stepped back to admire the setup for a moment, then turned to walk back in the house, satisfied.

                  John followed him, his mind still whirling. “Why did you kill that man for me, Jim?”

                  Jim walked back into the living room and sat at his desk to continue writing. “I would have killed him regardless of whether you were here or not. Anyone who barges into my house to threaten me or my employees must die. He was liability, and I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” He plucked up his fountain pen once more before adding, “And you’re a useful asset to me.”

                  “Thank you, boss. You know I would do just about anything for you…right, Jim?” John hoped he wasn’t pushing things too far.

                  Jim sat back in his chair and looked up at John darkly. He tapped his fingers on his desk. “Obviously you would. Anything to keep your precious Sherlock and Hamish safe from my evil grasp, isn’t that right?”

                  John swallowed and looked at the floor. Jim cocked his head, thinking. Perhaps John _was_ growing used to him. If he despised him, why was he being so adamant about keeping Jim off the drugs? He could see no benefit for John in doing so. What was his angle? Unsure of how he felt about the army doctor in front of him, Jim said nothing more. He capped his ink bottle and put away his pen, raising his eyebrows at John before walking upstairs to go to bed, wondering if John would follow him.

                  John set his mouth as Jim’s eyebrows rose. An invitation. Well, he wouldn’t disappoint. He turned up in Moriarty’s bedroom several minutes later and slipped under the covers, muttering a “Goodnight.”

                  “Don’t snore,” Jim said, leaving off the threat to stab him.

                  The next few nights were much the same. It became implied that John would share Jim's bed. John wondered why they both agreed to this—was it to fill some mutual, lonely hole? John couldn't imagine Jim feeling lonely, but he remembered the barbs Sherlock had thrown about Sebastian and the brief, wounded flicker in Jim's eyes. Was this man capable of missing anyone? John couldn't tell.

                  One evening, John was cleaning and checking the house's gun collection on Jim's orders. He pulled apart the pieces and checked them, so lost in his work that he didn't realize Jim had come to lean against the doorframe several minutes ago.

                  John finally looked up and saw Jim, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed as he surveyed John.

                  John raised his eyebrows. “Something wrong, boss? I promise, I passed gun assembly with flying colors in the army.” He looked at the array of pistols on the table. “Of course, those were _modern_ weapons.”

                  “Why do you sleep in my room every night?”

                  John clears his throat. “I thought that was what you wanted.” He hesitated, wondering how far he could take the lie. “And I want to please you, Jim.”

                  Jim stayed where he was, silent for a moment. “What's your angle, John? Honestly, I'm curious, because I'm having a hard time figuring it out.”

                  John met his eye steadily. “You mean to say you don’t find it believable that I want to please you? I _do_ want to please you. However much I hate my situation, I’ve accepted that it’s not going to change. If I can do good work for you and keep you happy, then we’ll both benefit, I figure. And I’m also… I’m lonely.” The last part wasn't a lie at all, John realized.

                  Jim continued to lean against the wall, eyes narrowed, wetting his lips. He finally shrugged away from the door frame and slowly walked towards John, dragging his nails across the back of John's shoulder as he circled him. He drawled, “You're a smart man, Dr. Watson...”

                  John shivered, but didn't move from his spot or look at Jim. “What do you mean, Jim?”

                  “I mean you're _right_. The happier _I_ am, the happier _you_ will be…”

                  “Glad my assumption was correct.” He swallowed and flicked his eyes sideways to Jim.                   “Is there—is there something that I haven’t been doing that would make you happy, boss?”

                  “Well that depends, John…I don’t like to just… _take_ things…unless they’re offered, that is…are you _offering_ , John?”

                  John fought the urge to point out that he took things all the time. He had taken his son, his freedom, the crown jewels, men's lives. This wasn't the moment to contradict Jim, however.                  

                  “I'm saying, boss, that I would offer up whatever made you happy, and that if what makes you happy pleases me as well, then so much the better.”

                  Jim looked down at him, unsatisfied with the indirectness of John's statement. “Stand up.” John was disgusted at how his heart hammered as he obeyed. He turned to face Jim, who locked eyes with him. “I need a 'yes' or a 'no.' Do. You. _Want_. It?”

                  “If you want it, Jim, then you can have it. I'm giving it to you.”

                  Jim's eyes went dark and he took a step close to John so that they were nearly touching. His voice dangerously low, Jim said, “Yes or no. _I want to hear you say it.”_

                  John tried not to shiver as he stared into Jim's eyes, which had dilated even wider than usual, the pupils eating the irises and making them appear pure black. It was now or never. He would do it for Sherlock, John told himself. Anything to see Sherlock again.

                  “Yes,” he whispered, forcing himself to keep his eyes level with Jim. Could Jim see the terror there? He had to.

                  Jim’s grin was slow-spreading, and he took a step towards John, then another and another, forcing John’s back against the wall. His hand darted to John’s throat and slammed him hard against the wall, his face devilish.

                  “Are you afraid of me, John?”

                  What did Jim want to hear? “Yes,” John choked out. It wasn’t a lie.

                  Jim shoved his lips against John’s in a forceful kiss, prying John’s mouth open with his tongue, searching every inch of John’s mouth.

                  It was invasive and overwhelming, and even while John struggled to breathe as Jim’s tongue ran along his teeth, as he sucked at John’s tongue, John felt a warm arousal beginning. Jim knew how to kiss. He knew how to vary the pressures and how to move his lips just right to make John moan against his will.

                  Jim finally pulled back and both men breathed hard, regaining their breath. He looked down at John’s lips for a moment before turning his dark gaze back to his eyes. “Upstairs. _Now_.”

 


	9. Playacting

Jim released his grip on John’s throat, and John made his way up the stairs, feeling his boss behind him. He was terrified, shaking even. John never shook.

                  Once in the bedroom, Jim slammed the door shut and began pulling off his tie.

                  “Get your clothes off.”

                  John’s stomach did a sickening flip. He fumbled with his waistcoat buttons, then his shirt. He paused at his trousers. “...Everything?”

                  Jim stepped forward until he and John were nearly touching. “Everything.” Jim began unbuttoning John's trousers himself, a small smile spreading on his lips. Once they were unbuttoned, Jim yanked them down to his knees and turned away to begin removing his tie. “Finish taking those off and get on the bed, kneeling, head down.”

                  John’s face burned as he finished stripping, then crawled onto the bed and kneeled, feeling humiliated. His heart hammered in his chest.

                  Jim kept his back to him as he removed his tie, waistcoat and shirt, neatly putting each in its proper place in his wardrobe. Once topless and shoeless, Jim turned as he unbuttoned his pants and looked up to take in every inch of John, a smirk on his face. He finished removing his clothing then crawled onto the bed behind the kneeling John and reached around, letting his hands run across his chest, one going up to grab at John's throat again, the other moving down to brush against and then grab at John's cock.

                  He leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Let's see if we can't make this a little harder...”

                  Jim kept his hand tightened at John’s throat as he began pumping, the roughness from the lack of lube creating a mixture of pain and pleasure.

                  John found himself hardening, disgusted at how readily his body reacted to someone as loathsome as Jim. He shuddered and pressed his back up against Jim almost involuntarily.

                  Jim, pleased with John’s speedy response, gave John a few more jerks, then gripped John’s hips. He bent down and ran his tongue from between John’s shoulder blades, up along his neck to his ear. “ _On your hands,_ ” he growled into it.

                  John was about to obey, then had an idea. He prayed that Jim liked unpredictability during sex, otherwise he was in trouble. He dropped and rolled sideways, pushing Jim with him until John was straddling him. He seized Jim’s wrists and pinned his arms by his head. If he could give a spectacular blowjob, maybe he could avoid being fucked. Or maybe Jim would just slit his throat for his insolence.

                  Jim looked a bit annoyed, but also curious. He arched his neck to look down at John.

                  John stared at the cock for a moment, unable to believe he was about to do this. _Don’t think about it_ , he told himself. _Detach, just detach._ John leaned down to run his tongue very slowly from the base to the head of Jim’s cock, trying to replicate everything that had made Sherlock shudder with pleasure. He pushed away a wave of guilt as Sherlock flooded into his mind, reminding himself that he was doing this for him, that it was a means to an end. He slowly took the head in his mouth, running his tongue along it.

                  Jim ripped his wrists away from John, not liking being pinned, and grabbed the sheet in his fists, shuddering at John’s touch.

                  John moved his hands up to Jim’s chest, digging his nails in as he pushed Jim farther in, varying the pressure of his lips and tongue. Jim moaned lowly, letting John continue for another minute or so, then suddenly growled, “Stop.”

                  John drew his mouth away and looked up at Jim.

                  Breathing hard, Jim snapped, “On your hands and knees.”

                  What had John expected? A compliment? Some act of mercy? He had asked for this, John reminded himself. He had to play the part. He rolled back into a kneeling position, then braced his hands against the bed, forcing himself to relax, trying not to think of the pain. John hoped Jim would ease in somehow. It was impossible to tell what he’d do.

                  He felt Jim climb to his knees behind him and grab John’s hips. “Well, this certainly was a surprise, Johnny-Boy.” Without warning he pushed himself in. John was unable to hold back a shout of pain. It had been months since he’d last had sex, and it hurt even more than he’d anticipated. He clenched his eyes shut and dug his hands into the sheets.

                  Jim held himself inside for a moment, waiting for John’s muscles to stop spasming around him, then began to pump in and out of John at a fast rate. “Sherlock’s loyal pet—giving me a treat out of his own free will. Did Christmas come early, kitten?”

                  John let out a breath, groaning each time Jim’s cock slammed into him, wanting it to be over.

                  “Yes, John, that’s right,” Jim’s breath was hot on his lower back. He was moving faster now, pulling on John’s hips, slamming him back to meet him. John forced himself to comply, thrusting his hips to meet Jim’s pushes.

                  Jim gnashed his teeth as he got closer to climax and reached one hand up to clutch at the back of John’s neck, the other reaching around to jerk him off.

                  John groaned at the touch and cried out, finding it felt good to yell out, to give some sort of release to his anguish and rage—and an unwelcome twinge of pleasure as well.

He moved his arms up to brace his body against the headboard in front of him, becoming overwhelmed as Jim pushed into him deeply, coming with a groan inside of John.

                  John cried out at the feeling, shocked and disgusted at having Jim’s semen inside of him. Jim was either too exhausted to notice that John hadn’t come, or maybe he just didn’t care. He collapsed on the bed next to John limply. John collapsed as well, wanting nothing more than to take a shower and then to disappear into nothing, but he had no shower, so he forced himself to lie next to Jim. He even went so far as to wipe a bead of sweat from Jim’s forehead as Jim caught his breath.

                  Jim’s eyes slid over John’s flushed body. “You didn’t come,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

                  John thought he’d say more, but he just rolled to face the other direction and said, “Don’t snore.”

                  John stared at Jim’s back, wondering if he’d done the right thing or if he’d made a huge mistake. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep until he was startled awake by Jim’s arm flinging around him. He looked over at Jim and saw that the man was still asleep. It had been an unconscious motion.

                  John was equally startled to realize that some part of him welcomed the closeness and the warmth at his back. As he slowly fell back asleep, he could almost imagine it was Sherlock wrapped around him, that he was safe at home on Baker Street.

                  The next morning, Jim rolled away from John in his sleep and woke up slowly, drowsily looking over at John, who had also just woken. Jim pushed himself to a sitting position, arching and cracking his back.

                  Hoping the move would put Jim in a good mood, John sat up, running his hand up Jim’s arm as he did, then leaned forward to kiss him gently on the mouth.

                  Jim kissed John back, pushing his head back onto the pillow. He pinned John’s arms and shoved his tongue into John’s mouth. John gave a small moan in surprise. “…Good morning,” he murmured.

                  John was about to answer when Jim shut him up with another deep kiss. He twisted his wrists in Jim’s hands and gave a small grunt, feeling short of breath.

                  Jim finally pulled away and rolled off the bed to put his clothes on. “We’ve got work to do today, kitten. Get that sweet little arse of yours out of bed, hop to!”

                  John turned away to gingerly rub his bruised lips. When he stood up pain shot through his back, but he couldn’t help but feel a bubble of hope rise up in him as he limped to his room to change. The kiss this morning had proved it; Jim was convinced that John wanted him, which meant John was one step closer to getting back to London


	10. Roulette

The next few days blended together for John. Killing in the day, sleeping with Jim at night. Jim never mentioned the sex; he gave John assignments as usual and dropped to sleep immediately at night.

                  John took this as a good sign. Jim trusted him enough to fall asleep before him. But did he believe that John was over Sherlock, that he was devoted solely to Jim? He would need Jim’s utmost trust if he was going to get permission to travel to London.

                  A few nights later, John limped home to find Jim in a violent temper. He’d already broken a number of china plates and a whisky glass, and was furiously scribbling a letter.

                  “Where’s a fucking phone when you need one?” he growled. “I need to yell at someone and I _can’t do it with bloody ink and pen!_ ” He stabbed his fountain pen down violently, causing a large blot on the page, then he looked up at John.

                  “Got scraped up again, you pathetic shit? Let me see your gun.”

                  John stepped forward and handed it over, then turned to head upstairs, eager to change and be out of Jim’s way.

                  “ _GET BACK HERE,”_ Jim growled, opening John’s revolver. “Three bullets left? This was supposed to be a one-bullet job! I thought you were supposed to be _efficient._ ”

                  John clenched his teeth together to stop from snapping that assassinations had a lot of unseen variables. He _knew_ he was good at what he did.

                  “So find someone better,” he couldn’t help but burst out.

                  Jim’s black gaze caught John’s eyes and a small smile played at his lips. John knew he’d tripped a wire and cursed himself for letting his tongue slip.

                  “Maybe I will, John,” Jim said, clicking the cylinder back in place, removing the safety and stroking the barrel against John’s jaw, then pressed it against his cheek.

                  John shivered at the cold metal on his face, but stared into Jim’s eyes. He wasn’t going to shoot him, John told himself. He wouldn’t. Then again, what was to stop him? Sherlock would never know.

                  Jim seized John’s hair, causing John to gasp. He used the opportunity to shove the barrel into John’s mouth. “I _could_ just find someone else. I don’t need you at all. And yet…”

                  John made a muffled groan as the barrel shoved in. His breathing was rapid and shallow through his nose, and he clenched his eyes shut.

                  “Tell me John,” Jim said, keeping the barrel in place, “How do you feel right now?”

                  The question caught John off-guard, but luckily he couldn’t enunciate anything more than a muffled groan with a gun barrel tickling the back of his throat anyway.

                  Jim pressed his hips against John, his fist clenched in his hair to keep him close. John’s eyes widened as he felt the beginning of Jim’s erection against him.

                  “I can read you, John Watson,” Jim said. “You’re still terrified of me. Smart man.”                 

                  He drew the gun out slowly, then pushed it back in, beginning to fuck John’s mouth with it, never losing his grip in John’s hair.

                  “But you get off on it, don’t you? The danger of it all. That’s why you do your job without complaint. You _like_ it. Deep down…it’s so much better than being the glorified sniffer-dog of an ungrateful detective.”

                  John moaned as the gun pushed in and out. He _did_ like the danger. If he set his morals aside, he found the job satisfying on some base level. But he felt empty and alone without Sherlock. He had to keep satisfying Jim, John told himself, if he was ever going to get back to Sherlock.

                  “Am I wrong?” Jim shoved the gun as far in as he could, making John cry out and gag on the metal, relieved when Jim finally pulled it out. He licked his lips as he waited for John’s answer.

                  It was obvious what Jim wanted. John yanked on his tie to pull Jim’s mouth to his, kissing him firmly, then lowered his hands to pull at the waistband of Jim’s trousers, bringing him closer. If he closed his eyes, maybe he could pretend he was Sherlock, if only for a moment.

                  That proved to be impossible. Jim’s hands were rough on John’s body, yanking off his jacket and grabbing at his shoulders. He bit at John’s lips, his tongue forcing its way inside John’s mouth. He kissed John into disorientation, pushing him backwards until he nearly tripped over the staircase.

                  He dragged John up the stairs by his neck, practically throwing John into the bedroom. “Strip,” he ordered, watching hungrily as John fumbled out of his clothing. John could feel Jim’s eyes assessing his every inch once more, apparently pleased with him, judging by the low noise in Jim’s throat. John’s body had changed since he’d begun working for Jim. The soft places were gone, replaced by muscle, and several new scars and wounds were scattered across his chest, shoulders, and back.

                  As John undressed, Jim removed his tie, waistcoat, socks, and shoes, then unbuttoned his shirt and let it hang open. Once John was fully undressed, he stood in front of Jim, awaiting orders, but Jim had an eyebrow raised and was looking expectant, and John realized Jim wanted him to initiate.

                  That was somehow worse than turning himself over to Jim and letting himself be taken. John pulled him closer to him by the edges of his shirt, then began kissing at his neck, biting lightly under his ear, then nibbling on the earlobe itself, which got a positive response.

                  Jim tilted his head back, exposing his prominent Adam’s apple, which John licked and sucked at, then traced his tongue down to the hollow under Jim’s throat, his hands sliding under Jim’s shirt to caress his bare skin.

                  “Nnngh, John…” Jim murmured softly.

                  John closed his eyes, separating himself from the experience. He kept his mind task-oriented, focused on a good performance, trying to keep his emotions folded away somewhere safe. From the way things were going now, he could keep things gentle and low-key.

                  That all changed when Jim pulled away and shoved him against the bed, nearly sending him teetering over. “No need to go so soft on me, kitten,” he said, then grabbed a fistful of John’s hair, yanked his head to the side, and bit his neck, hard, grinding his hips against John’s obscenely.

                  John hissed in pain, his grip on Jim’s hips tightening automatically.

                  “Mm, _much_ better! Sex is no fun when there’s not a winner, isn’t that right?” Jim shoved John back on the bed and quickly straddled and pinned him, ducking down to lick and suck up his chest, then bit down on his nipples, causing John to writhe and arch his back. “And I’m _always_ the winner.”

                  John was now fully erect, even as he tried to wriggle free from underneath Jim.

                  “Yes, that’s right, struggle,” Jim laughed, bucking against him, then dug a fingernail into one of John’s fresh wounds, just above his bicep. John let out a wounded cry. “Cooperating quietly is such a yawn.” He licked John’s blood from his finger. “Yum.”

                  Once Jim had yanked off his belt, he swung the buckled end against John’s face, leaving an angry red welt against John’s cheek. John cried out in pain and surprise, clutching his face.

                  Jim was still rutting against John, whose struggles only made the friction more palpable. It didn’t take long for Jim to grab hold of John’s wrists and tether them together with the belt to the headboard, leaving John’s arms incapacitated and the rest of his body vulnerable.

                  “Oh, _yes!_ ” Jim was cackling like a madman now, frotting against John and running his hands all over John’s body.

                  “Jim, please…” John breathed, but he didn’t know whether he was begging Jim to let him go or to keep going. It was like being trapped in a violent maelstrom.

                  Jim dragged his nails slowly down John’s chest and torso. He seemed unable to hold back his greed from John’s body, wanting all of it at once. He shoved John’s legs apart and kept them firmly pinned as he kissed and bit along his hip, coming torturously close to John’s cock, but avoided the actual area.

                  “Please _what_ , Doctor Watson?” Jim giggled, his hand clawing down John’s thigh and around to his bum. He prodded his finger inside of John, brushing it teasingly against the prostate. John felt a surge of pleasure hit him and he gasped and bucked up.

                  “Ohh, _kitten_ , you _do_ want me!” Jim’s voice was rising to a manic level now as he seized John legs and shoved them up on Jim’s shoulders, pushing John’s knees against his chest and leaning down to hover his face above John’s, grinning at his tortured expression.

                  John kept struggling, pulling his wrists against the belt, unsure of whether he wanted to get free anymore or not, but finding it felt good to try. He couldn’t stop writhing and bucking against Jim’s every touch. It was an addictive madness, sending hot fury through every particle of John’s being.

                  Jim grabbed a bottle of some sort of oil from his bedside table and slicked his fingers with it, then shoved two fingers into John without warning, curling them against John’s prostate in a way that made John arch his back and curl his toes, wanting more.

                  “Beg for me, slut,” Jim snarled, clawing an oiled hand across John’s bum.

                  “P-please,” John moaned. He moaned a bit louder when Jim pressed his fingers harder inside, then gasped again as Jim yanked the revolver from his pocket and shoved it down John’s throat as he simultaneously withdrew his fingers and then shoved his cock inside of John.

                  “Ever played Russian Roulette, John?” Jim asked, beginning to fuck him slowly, keeping the gun shoved into John’s mouth.

                  John’s eyes widened, and he began struggling even more intensely, expending all of his energy into a simultaneous effort to get free and to increase the pressure against his prostate.

                  “Three bullets…that gives you a 50/50 chance,” Jim mused, fucking John harder now, cocking the gun. “If you would’ve killed him with one bullet, I would’ve only loaded it with one…tsk. Too bad for you.”

                  John gave a muffled, pleading yell, shaking his head back and forth frantically and yanking as hard as he could against his restraints. He was utterly trapped and overwhelmingly full, to the point where he could barely think straight.

                  Jim used his free hand to shove one of John’s legs farther up, angling himself so he could hit John’s prostate every time, overwhelming him with pleasure. John was riding toward one of the most intense orgasms of his life.

                  “Feeling lucky, Johnny?”

                  The gun clicked and John screamed as he felt pleasure explode inside of him.

                  “CARDS ARE IN YOUR FAVOR, DARLING!” Jim yelled madly as pounded into him, pulling the gun from John’s mouth and firing a bullet into the ceiling as he climaxed himself.

                  “You’re insane,” John gasped as Jim collapsed next to him. He was quivering all over. That had been one of the most terrifying experiences of John’s life, but he’d had the most mind-blowing orgasm along with it. It disturbed him to think that Jim had given it to him, _Jim_ , the man he loathed more than anything.

                  “And you’re a lucky one, kitten. _That’s_ why I keep you around.”

                  Jim wrapped his arm around John and licked up his cheek, then kissed him fully on the mouth before he rolled over to sleep, leaving John panting and tethered to the bed, feeling self-disgust and confusion wash over him.

                  He stared at the fresh bullet hole in the ceiling. Jim had fired a loaded gun into his mouth. During sex. John easily could have died, and Moriarty probably would have finished fucking himself in John’s ruined corpse, laughing. John’s skin crawled and his heart refused to slow its beat. Even if Jim trusted him and gave him a bit of leeway, John was still an expendable item in Moriarty’s book.


	11. London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PREPARE FOR A CHAPTER DUMP!! Imma finish posting this TONIGHT. have the whole fic. RIGHT NOW. That's right.

            As the weeks passed, sex with Jim became a routine, although it never felt routine. It was always terrifying and unsettling; Jim’s unpredictability meant John never felt at ease, but he began to learn what Jim liked and even, to his disgust, began liking it himself. Guilt would wash over him afterwards, but sometimes in the heat of the moment, John would forget about the Sherlock and disappear in the pleasure.

                  However, the added complication to John’s life did nothing to deter him from his ultimate goal of getting to Sherlock.

                  One weekend, Jim and John visited Hamish at school, which only refueled the fire inside John. He began growing antsy and considered risking his lie to ask Jim about London if Jim didn't bring it up soon. John didn't have to worry for long, though.

                  One day, he came back from discarding a body with some of Jim's other lackeys to find Jim in a rage. John and the three other men held back by the door, none of them wanting to approach him while he was in one of his moods. Finally, John took a hesitant step towards Jim, who had just overturned his desk and kicked a hole in the wall.

                  Jim looked up, fuming, and growled, “You four are going to London.”  
                  John wanted to leap up and punch the air, but buried his joy and managed a look of mild surprise. “What's in London, sir?”

                  Jim didn't even notice that John had called him “sir” again, but picked up a vase and chucked it against the opposite wall with a cry of rage, where it burst into pieces. “ _A LOAD OF THICK-SKULLED BRAINLESS IDIOTS, APPARENTLY!”_

                  John nodded and joined the three men as Jim listed off the men he wanted taken care of and the people who needed to be threatened. As always, Jim wanted the job done quickly, demanding their return in a week. This gave them a scanty two days in London, but it would be enough time for John.

                  He used the two-day journey to London as an opportunity to bond with the men—Hammond, Burke, and O'Connell. It would be to his advantage to get the men to trust and like him. The man made fun of him for being Moriarty's bitch, but John did his best to convince them that he was absolutely devoted and in love with Jim. That way, if someday he managed to kill Jim, the men might not immediately suspect him. He wanted to erase any motive. For the same reason, when the men mentioned Sherlock, John responded with bitterness.

                  As John suspected, one of the men—he was fairly sure it was Burke—had been assigned to keep an eye on John to make sure he didn't venture towards Baker Street. Then men stayed at an inn in Bloomsbury, and without too much difficulty, John split from the others for his assignment. Knowing Burke had tabs on him, John had lunch at the Cross and Key and scribbled a note, then found a boy to deliver it, giving him a generous tip.

                  “There's another guinea in it for you if you return with an answer to a question,” John told the boy, holding up the coin. “Ask the housekeeper, 'What's John's favourite meal?'”

                  When the boy returned empty-handed a half-hour later, out of breath and with the answer “steak and kidney pie,” John smiled and relinquished his guinea, knowing the note had fallen into the right hands.

 

                  Mary knocked forcefully on Sherlock's door. It was, as it had often been for the past few months, locked. “Mr. Holmes? SHERLOCK! Open up!”

                  Since John’s and Hamish’s absence, Sherlock had buried himself in his work, obsessively compiling notes on deduction, cataloguing common mannerisms, analyzing minutiae, anything to keep his mind off how much he missed John and his son. During the first month, he’d spent all of his energy on potential rescue plans, but they had all fallen through, so now he lost himself in his work and spoke little with Mary or Arthur.

                  He dragged himself off the sofa and answered the door, eyes dead. “What.”

                  Mary held out the slip of paper in a trembling hand, then held her hands to her mouth as Sherlock took it, curious as to what could illicit such a reaction from her. He unfolded the paper and immediately recognized John's handwriting.

 

_Sherlock—Hamish and I are alive and safe. I’ve arranged a way for us to correspond. Send letter to Jane O’Malley at (address), seal with a “KM” emblem. More info to come—I’m doing my best to find a way back to you. I’m keeping Hamish safe. I love you. I miss you. I’m going to get us both back to you. Continue with your life as normal—our lives are both being watched. Yours—JW_

                  Mary watched Sherlock let out a choked gasp. He scanned over the letter several more times, although he had memorized it the first time through. By the fifth time through it, Sherlock was crying.

                  “They're alive, Mary…they’re _alive_.” Before he realized what he was doing, Sherlock was holding Mary, sobbing on her shoulder. Mary grabbed him back, crying as well, sharing his relief and sorrow and moved by his rare display of emotion. “I know sir—I know!”

                  After a moment, Sherlock took a step back, taking a deep breath, collecting himself and wiping away his tears. He set his jaw and breathed in heavily through his nose again. “I need you to go to the stationary shop a few streets down and fetch me a seal with the letters ‘KM’ on it and a new stick of wax.”

                  Mary nodded, giving Sherlock's arm an affectionate squeeze before she left. After she'd closed the door, Sherlock read through the letter one more time, running his thumb over the ‘JW’ printed at the bottom, thinking how John was holding this piece of paper perhaps just an hour before. He crossed to the window and watched as Mary wrapped her shawl around her as she headed out the door.

                  Sherlock scanned the street, unable to help hoping that his eyes would lock with a certain brown-eyed army doctor. When they didn't, he went to sit at his writing desk and began composing John's letter, not knowing how long it would be until he got it. It would be at least a week before it reached Dublin, where the address was marked, but would John even be back then? He wished he could respond to the letter immediately. Sherlock felt a pang of annoyance that 1895 didn’t have the convenience of mobiles and texting.

 

                  John killed the men he had to and avoided Baker Street altogether, reuniting with the other men and heading back to Dublin without delay. John wanted to be sure that Jim remained convinced that John was infatuated with him, especially after the trip to London, so close to Sherlock.

                  On the night he returned, when the other men had left, John stepped behind Jim as he sat at his writing desk and reached out a hand to trail it along Jim's neck. “It’s good to be home, boss.” John was careful to use the word “home.”

                  Jim didn't look up. “Hm. Is it really? I was worried London might…rekindle some old feelings.”

                  “I do miss the city sometimes, if that’s what you mean.” John leaned down to kiss then bite Jim's earlobe, an area John had learned is a sensitive spot for Jim.

                  “Mmm…” Jim turned his head a bit to the side, allowing John easier access. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

                  “Of course I think about him. But I would rather have him safe and unbothered by you than running for his life or dead. It’s better this way. And I’m coming to realize…” John leaned over to bite Jim's other ear. “You can offer me things he couldn’t. You keep me busy, make me feel needed. He was always trying to protect me.” John was disgusted to realize this was all true, in a way.

                  Jim turned in his chair and saw the look of disgust on John's face, and knew at once that he was telling the truth. Jim's lips curled into a pleased smile. He stood up, grabbing John's tie and pulling him forward for a playful kiss, one that barely touches John's lips, then shoved him back against the wall, still gripping his tie. He leaned forward and licked along John's jaw, up to his ear, where he whispered, “Did you miss me, Johnny Boy?”

                  The usual mixed feeling of terror, excitement, and a twinge of self-disgust swept over John and he said, breathily, “Yes.”

                  Jim's eyes glinted as he leaned forward, pushing John harder against the wall to kiss him. He muttered into John's mouth, “ _Prove it.”_

                  John’s breath hitched and he drew his mouth away long enough to mumble, “Did you have a task in mind or did you want me to use my imagination?”

                  Jim returned his lips to John's ear to whisper, “Surprise me.” John twitched a bit as Jim gently grabbed at him through his trousers and laughed softly in his ear, then swung John around so that Jim was leaning against the wall.

                  John gave him another kiss, then ran his hands from behind his ears to along the sides of his neck, sliding downwards and running his hands down his chest. He moved his hands around to Jim’s back, sliding them down and squeezing at Jim’s buttocks as he got onto his knees, brushing his lips against Jim’s trousers as he worked to unbutton them.

                  He drew out Jim’s mostly-hardened cock and grabbed his balls as he licked along Jim’s length until it was completely hard. He drew away and touched the very tip of his tongue to the top, running patterns along it, teasing before he took the head in his mouth.

                  Jim moaned, closing his eyes and running his hand through John’s hair before he grabbed handfuls of it as John began to bob in and out.

                  John increased his speed, taking more of the length each time until Jim was in as far as he could bear. He sucked as hard as he could, sliding his tongue up and down the veins.

                  Jim groaned louder, then seized the hair at the sides of John’s hair and yanked his head back and forth, fucking John’s mouth, then shoved John away, shuddering as he came over John’s shoulder.

                  John panted and fell backwards, catching himself with his hands. He was glad he didn’t have to swallow. He stretched his jaw and then stowed Jim away, then carefully rebuttoned Jim’s trousers and slid back up. “Was that proof enough?”

                  Jim grabbed John’s tie and swung him back around to press him against the wall and licked John’s chin. “For now.” Then, as if nothing had happened, Jim dropped back into his chair and continued to write.

                  John swallowed and stared at the stain on the carpet. Months ago he would’ve felt vile and disgusted after doing something like that. Now he felt nothing. It was just another task, another facet to the job. He thought vaguely that there was something wrong with that, but he didn’t let himself dwell on it.

                  That night, Jim fucked John to make up for lost time, and the whole time John thought the same thing over and over: Sherlock had his letter. Sherlock knew he was alive and safe. Well, alive anyway.

                  The next few weeks crawled. Whenever he got a moment alone with Jane, he asked her about a letter, until one day she finally had one. John stowed it in his inner waistcoat pocket and didn’t dare open it until he was out in Dublin on an assignment. When he had a free moment, he retreated to a park bench and finally ripped it open.

 

_My dear John—I shall keep this brief, as I am unsure of how long you will have to read it. I have been searching every school in England, via post, searing for Hamish, hoping that somehow, finding his school would lead me to your location, or at least an idea of both of your where-abouts. When I couldn’t find him, I assumed you were both dead. I will come for you, John. I will come and get you both, although I have yet to find a way to do so. Write back as soon as you can without putting yourself in any more danger than you are already in. –SH_

 

                  John read through the letter several times, scrutinizing the unmistakable handwriting, and finding himself tearing up over idiotic things, like how tightly Sherlock hooked his ‘G’s. He kissed the letter then pulled the fresh sheets he’d stowed for writing to Sherlock and wrote,

 

_Sherlock—Your letter found me safely. Don’t try to find Hamish and me. We’re both in Dublin. Hamish thinks you're dead—Moriarty made me lie to him. I’m currently building up Moriarty’s trust: the fact that he let me travel to London was a huge first step. Now I’m attempting to get to know his men and gain their trust, to try and pick apart Moriarty’s web. If I can gain the men’s cooperation, then I can kill Moriarty and return to you without being followed. On your end, you need to figure out who is observing you—you probably already have. Together we can win. I know I’m not as good of a planner as you, but this just might work. Jim already trusts me quite a bit. I love you. Stay safe and write back. See you soon. –Your John_

                  John sent it off as soon as he could, then eagerly awaited the next one. The postal service was excruciatingly slow, but soon he and Sherlock had a steady correspondence.

 

_John—How are you planning on “picking apart his web”? And how, exactly, are you gaining his trust? Don’t do anything stupid or cavalier, John. I already know who’s following me. There are eight of them. They take it in shifts, two at a time. I have yet to find a way to get rid of them without it obviously being led back to me, and therefore something happening to you or Hamish. Be careful, John. I love you, write back soon. Yours –SH_

 

_Sherlock—I plan on picking apart the web by seeing who works for whom, and what their motive is for working for Moriarty. Everyone works under threat of their own lives, but some are willing criminals and others, like me, are coerced into it because they have skills or access to things Moriarty needs, and he threatens their families. I have convinced Moriarty that I am bitter towards you and that I feel more useful around him. It’s been harder than you can know, but he seems to buy it. I’m always careful: I have to look after Hamish. I only see him every other weekend. He seems to be okay. He misses you. Enclosed is a picture he gave me from his art class. Guess who the tall man in the funny hat is supposed to be? Once I find a way out of the web, I can kill Moriarty and get back to you. Stay safe. I love you. – Your John_

_John—I wish I could send you more than just a letter. Mary says hello and to be careful, which I must emphasize to you—if you are caught rooting around in Moriarty’s business, there is no telling what he might do. Keep me posted on any developments. I love you. Yours –SH (PS) Why is it always the hat picture? Glad to see that Hamish carried that somewhat unfortunate tradition into the past._

 

                  John smiled at the postscript, then carefully folded the letter away. When he returned to the townhouse, he hid it with his other letters, which were rolled up inside a hollowed-out leg of the bedside table. Their correspondence had been going on successfully for several months now; there were weeks between letters, and the waiting was agonizing, but each brief, scribbled note was worth it.

                  He wanted to write a letter back to Sherlock now, but he didn't have any news to share and hated furthering the risk on Jane without good cause. John had spent the past month getting to know Moriarty's men, going to to drinks with them, never prying, but finding out snippets of their lives and motives over pints and poker games.

                  A month went by and John made minimal progress. He was beginning to realize that Jim's web was a lot more complex than he had ever thought, but he never understood how complex until he found himself talking with a man named Dougherty, who alluded to strings of other men devoted to carrying out Jim's word. Scores of men, spread across the British Empire, a far-reaching web. After his talk with Dougherty, John came home discouraged, and tromped upstairs to get ready for bed.

                  When he opened the door, Jim was waiting for him, sitting on the bed. He didn't look up from examining his nails as he said in a bored tone, “Take your clothes off.” He picked a hangnail.

                  John noticed, as his trembling hands began unbuttoning his shirt, that there were several ropes and a gag lying on the bed near Jim's feet. He couldn't help gulping. Jim usually only tied him when he'd had a bad day, and John always came away sore from it. The casual, bored tone to Jim's voice was a red flag as well. What was he so angry about?

                  John peeled off the last of his clothes and stood awaiting orders. Maybe the ropes were only set out as a threat. Maybe he wouldn't actually use them.

                  Jim was still examining his nails, not bothering to glance up. “So...what did you do with your day off?” 


	12. Uncovered

            John's stomach began to knot as he stood, awkwardly naked in front of him.

                  He struggled to meet Jim's light, conversational tone as he lied, “I went the pub for a drink or two with the lads, had a bit of a walk.”

                  Jim's eyebrows shot up. “Sounds relaxing...” He turned to look at John. “Did you do anything else, then?”

                  John looked up and to the left, pretending to rack his brain. It was probably best not to mention Dougherty. He doubted merely talking to him would get him in trouble, but it might raise suspicions. The man wasn't exactly in Jim's immediate ring of men. “Nnnope, I think that's it,” he said, surprising himself with the casual tone he managed to pull off.

                  Jim puckered his lips a little and nodded, then rolled off the bed and slowly walked over to John, circling around behind him slowly before coming to a stop in front of him. Their eyes locked. Jim's expression was dark.

                  “You're quite sure about that?”

                  John didn't bat an eye, but he knew something was wrong. Maybe he _should_ mention Dougherty. They hadn't directly talked about anything bad, after all. “Oh—I met another one of your men—Dougherty. I just sort of—bumped into him, had a brief chat. That was all. Why? Is there a problem?” John forced himself to sound and look unconcerned.

                  Jim's face contorted into a furious, threatening smile, then he frowned, pursed his lips, disbelieving. “'Bumped into him,' did you? Hm. That’s interesting.”

                  John wasn't prepared for the fist to his stomach, which sent him doubling over, gasping. Jim wandered behind him, slowly trailing a finger from one of John's bare shoulders to the other, then without warning grabbed John's neck, forcing him upright.

                  John wheezed and tried to pry Jim's fingers from his throat as Jim hissed in his ear, “ _Don’t lie to me.”_

                  “W-what did you hear?” John choked out, and Jim tightened his grip on his neck, his thumb digging into John's pulse point.

                  “I _heard_ that _you_ went and searched him out— _planned_ a little chat.” Jim threw John forward onto the bed, using his neck for leverage. John scrambled to turn over, scooting away from the enraged man.

                  “I’m sorry,” John sputtered out. “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble. I just had some questions and was directed to talk to him. Why—why shouldn’t I be talking to him?”

                  Jim growled in fury and lunged forward, seizing John's neck once more and pushed his head back to the mattress, pressing down on his throat and pushing his face so close to John's that their noses were almost touching. “If you have a question, you ask _me_. You want to know about my business, _you ask ME_. You know who goes behind a boss’s back to ask questions? Someone who’s meddling in things they shouldn’t. Now. _On your hands and knees._ ”

                  John faltered. This was going to hurt. A lot. He wished he could see what Jim was doing behind him, but he didn't dare look back. Jim seized his left wrist, winding a rope around it and tying it tightly to one of the bedposts, then did the same with his right, stretching his arms wide and forcing the top of his head to press uncomfortably against the headboard. John's heart hammered as Jim shoved the gag in his mouth, and he couldn’t help  but groan in protest as Jim tightened it in a firm knot behind his head. John wrapped his fingers around the bedposts as best as he could, hearing Jim slide his trousers off, then feeling him kneel on the bed behind him.

                  He didn’t expect the gentle, gliding touch of Jim’s fingers as they ran up John's back and stroked the nape of his neck.  Jim leaned down to whisper in John's ear, a regretful tinge in his voice, “It really upsets me that you went behind my back, Johnny Boy…I thought we could trust each other. Now I have to teach you a lesson.”

                  John gave a muffled moan through the gag, but it was so firmly jammed in his mouth that the sound came out as unintelligible noise. He wrists were already sore; Jim had tied them uncomfortably tight. He was trembling, and despite his horror and discomfort, he realized he was hardening. His fetish for danger had distinct disadvantages.

                  Jim grabbed a third rope and looped it around John's neck, tying it off and holding the end like a leash. Just as John was wondering what Jim planned to do with it, Jim yanked his legs apart and shoved into him without warning, immediately thrusting hard and fast.

                  Pain racked John’s body and he yelled out, making no attempt to mask it or quiet it, since the gag muffled it so much anyway. Every thrust pushed a futile yell or groan of protest from John's mouth as his head pressed against the headboard.

                  “You know, John, I _really_ thought we were getting somewhere in our relationship. I don't know why you felt you had to go and seek out Dougherty—”

                  After a particularly loud cry through the gag, Jim yanked on the rope around John's neck, forcing John’s head to snap back, the rope cutting off his air supply to silence him. The pressure released after a few seconds, leaving John breathing hard through his nose, but the pain at his throat remained.

                  “I mean,” Jim continued, laughing, thrusting into him with full force, “The man does really _know_ anything anyway. What were you trying to figure out, I wonder?” Now his laugh was cruel, and he yanked again on the rope to stop John's muffled whimper. “You aren't trying to take me down, are you? Tsk tsk tsk...that would be _quite_ the ambitious task...”

                  Jim picked up speed, sending the headboard slamming against the wall. Despite the pain, John felt his arousal increasing. Jim was making a conscious effort to hit John's prostate, pleasuring him. _Why?_ John wondered as he felt the waves of pleasure hitting him. Why was Jim giving him pleasure while punishing him? His thoughts and his groans were cut off as Jim gave another yank to the rope around his neck.

                  Despite his increasingly labored breath, Jim continued his monologue. “Honestly… _I_ don’t even know how I would start to go about bringing me down…I am _that_ thorough! …but then again, I suppose I don’t actually know that’s what you were doing…but, John…” Jim stopped thrusting, staying inside him and leaving John panting until he pulled back hard on the rope around his neck, forcing his head back. John gave a strangled moan as Jim leaned over, his lips touching John's ear as he said quietly, “ _Please_ take me serious when I say, if you try and pull a stunt like this again...”

                  Jim pulled out and thrust hard into John once, and as agonized, intense pleasure spilled over John, Jim whispered, “I will slit your son's throat.”

                  John let out a furious, pained groan, blinking back tears as Jim thrust in a few more times before coming himself, not pulling out until his erection had completely disappeared.

                  John clenched his eyes shut, continuing to make weak, muffled pleading noises, resting his sweaty head against the wood. His arms hung slackly. He was unable to muster the energy to keep yanking on them, and it was doing no good anyway. He waited for Jim to untie him or ungag him. There were a few terrifying moments where Jim was still, presumably sitting behind him, watching him, perhaps. Relishing in his vulnerable state. Was Jim just going to leave him like this?

                  But no, he finally reached over and untied John's gag, then untied his wrists. Once they were free, John collapsed face-first, gasping in air and clawing off the rope around his neck. He weakly pushed the ropes off the bed with his foot, then lay, too weak and sore to move.

                  Jim crawled to his side of the bed and slid under the covers next to John. He rolled to face him, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Goodnight, Johnny Boy, be good and don’t snore.” With that, Jim rolled away from John and fell asleep almost immediately.

                  John watched Jim's back, terrified, until he was sure Jim's even breathing was genuine. He slipped from the bed and limped to the corner chair, trembling. All things considered, he told himself, he had gotten off easy this time. He was alive. Sherlock and Hamish were alive. That was all he could ask for. But the plan—the plan was ruined.

                  John drew his knees up to his chest, burying his head in his knees and rubbing the raw skin at his wrists, trying to take what had just happened and shoving it in some dark forgotten room of his brain. When that didn't do any good, he finally stood up and padded downstairs to write a fresh letter.

 

_Dear Sherlock—The plan’s failed. I’m caught so deeply in Jim’s web that I can’t see a way out. I’m scared that I won’t get away. I love you. I miss you. I hope to God I can see you again. –Your John._

 


	13. The Bullet

            Frightened by what would happen should Jim wake the next morning with him not by his side, John quietly stowed the letter in the inner pocket of the waistcoat he had set out for tomorrow and slid back into bed next to Jim.

                  In the morning, it was as if nothing had happened. Jim was back to his dangerous, mood-swinging self, but he didn't mention the night's activities, only sent John out on an assignment. John used the time to send the letter to Sherlock.

                  Over the next month John didn't stick a toe out of line, bending to Moriarty's every whim and will. The only thing that kept John going was his visits with Hamish and the unwavering hope that there would be another letter from Sherlock. Week after week he’d ask Jane, but she would give him the same sympathetic look and the whisper, “Sorry, Dr. Watson. No letter yet.”

                  John began to suspect that something had happened to Sherlock. He hated that he had no way of knowing. Not for the first time he wished he had any sort of technology. He felt entirely disconnected from London, other than scraps of general news. Sherlock could be dead, for all he knew.

                  Every week that went by without a letter made John more and more nervous. It was possible, he thought, that Jim had done something to Sherlock and was covering it up. Wouldn’t he want to gloat if that were the case, however? Either way, John had waited too long for Sherlock to help. He needed to do this himself. He began thinking seriously about the daunting task of killing Jim Moriarty.

                  The first thing to do, of course, was to investigate the web, but the last time he’d done that, Jim had found out. He would be more careful this time. He would, as much as it pained him, take it slow.

                  A month of very cautious investigation led John to the key name: Burke. Burke was the one assigned to kill John should John kill Moriarty. Of this John was fairly certain. John began watching Burke closely, assessing his style, finding his weaknesses.

                  The second part of the plan required a way to get Hamish out of school and somewhere safe as soon as possible. The weekend after he discovered Burke, John made his usual trip to see Hamish. He waited at their usual meeting spot, idly watching other laughing boys walk down the hallway. Hamish was later than usual, but John supposed he might have gotten caught up with a friend or a professor. After waiting an hour with no sign of Hamish, John began to worry. He headed to Hamish’s dormitory and pushed the door open.

                  Hamish’s bed, usually hastily made and covered with books, was stripped bare, and there was no sign of any of Hamish’s belongings. John’s stomach plummeted. His thoughts plummeted as he raced down the hallway to the registrar’s office.

                  “Where’s Hamish, my son, Hamish?” John babbled. “Hamish Watson…please—“

                  The registrar frowned. “He was withdrawn just the other day. All the papers were in order,” he said, showing the slip to John. “Were you not informed?”

                  Jim. John felt dizzy. Jim couldn’t have. Not Hamish. Please, God, not Hamish. “Thank you…” John said faintly, leaving in a haze. There were two main possibilities, as far as John could see. Jim could be withholding Hamish from John as punishment. Perhaps he transferred Hamish to another school, a school where John couldn’t visit him. John shook his head bitterly. Of course. It was what Jim had always wanted: a protégé. What better way than to remove John’s influence altogether?

                  There was another possibility of course, one that John dreaded to think about. “I will slit your son’s throat,” Jim had growled in John’s ear. He shuddered. His sleep had been plagued by nightmares about Hamish. The dreams were mostly all the same. John would hear Hamish scream, and he’d run through what felt like glue to get to him. Sometimes the location varied. The ending never did. He always arrived too late, finding Hamish dead and bloody on the ground.

                  John’s mouth went dry. In either case, Jim had made a mistake. John was desperate, willing to do anything. Jim had said that if John tried anything, Sherlock would be executed. How was Moriarty passing the word on? Via mail? If John killed Burke and then Moriarty, he could hurry to London before his execution letter did. It was a huge risk, John knew, but if Jim really did have Hamish, and if Sherlock really was in trouble, he had to try.

                  It wasn’t so hard to kill Burke after all. He stalked him while Burke was on assignment. One bullet; tidy, no witnesses. He had, he estimated, less than a day before Moriarty found out. Less than a day to kill him, then. As John walked home, wiping off and pocketing his gun, he coldly decided that he would kill Jim as soon as Jim got home from his meeting that evening.

                  John had several long hours at the house before Jim returned, which he spent pacing the living room nervously. Jim always returned home armed. John would have to pretend to be relaxed until Jim disarmed for the evening before he struck.

                  Jim didn’t arrive until 7 pm. John was sitting, drumming his fingers on his knee in the drawing room and pretending to read a book.

                  “John,” Jim nodded a bored greeting and sank into his desk chair.

                  John nodded back and picked up a book, too preoccupied to process a single word.

                  Jim finally turned in his seat to ask boredly, “Something on your mind, Dr. Watson?”

                  John was about to answer when there was a loud clatter from the kitchen, making both John and Jim jump and turn their heads toward the drawing room door.

                  Jane gave a short “Oh!”, then there was a brief silence before she called out, “S-sorry Mr. Moriarty, Dr. Watson—” She peeked around the corner. “J-just dropped a platter, is all.” She disappeared and John buried his head in his book once more.

                  “You still haven't answered my question, John,” Jim said, a dangerous tinge in his voice. “What's on your mind?”

                  John kept his eyes trained on his book. “Just that Charles Dickens is severely overrated.” He glanced up. “How was your day?”

                  “Fairly uneventful…although, I _was_ given some rather unfortunate news.”

                  John tensed but refused to look up. “Oh?”

                  Jim turned back around to face John, this time looking at him down the barrel of a pistol. “It _turns_ out that someone went and killed Burke! Does that sound at all familiar to you, John?” He stood, keeping the gun trained at John's head.

                  Fuck. Jim had found out far faster than John had anticipated. He swallowed.

                  “Why don’t you be a good boy and hand over that pistol stowed in your jacket?” Jim asked sweetly.

                  John stared down the blackness of the barrel for a few tense moments before he finally reached behind him, pulled out the gun, and dropped it to the floor. He raised his hands up, stumbling away from Jim. If this was how John was going to go out, he wanted answers. “ _Jim._ Tell me what you did with Hamish. Jim, I _have_ to know.”

                  Jim rolled his eyes. “Oh _please_! Don’t try and distract me.” He whined, annoyed, “You’re ruining my build up to your death! Can’t you just shut up for a moment? I’m going to have to start all over now!”

                  “ _JIM_! JAMES MORIARTY! DID YOU KILL MY SON, YES OR NO?!” John’s voice came out utterly desperate and commanding, his eyes flashing. All fear had left him. If he had no chance of seeing Hamish or Sherlock again, then there was nothing left to fear.

                  Jim’s eyes narrowed. “What the _hell_ are you on about?” He moved the gun closer, cocking it.

                  “Jim, I went to the school. He’s missing, and I know you did something. And I know you did something to Sherlock too. _JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU DID AND THEN SHOOT ME_.” John's voice was a hollow monotone. “I don’t care anymore, Jim…just tell me what happened and I’ll go peacefully. Fucking give me the gun and I’ll do the job for you. Just _please_. Tell a dead man what you did to his family.”

                  Jim lowered the gun slightly, genuinely confused. “Hamish is missing?”

                  John closed his eyes, sick of Jim’s games, and nodded, giving up, almost wishing for the bullet when a shot rang out. He jumped and kept his eyes squeezed closed. He didn’t feel any pain, and when he finally realized that he hadn’t been shot at all, he opened his eyes.

                  Moriarty was facedown on the floor, a pool of blood forming around his chest and seeping into the carpet. “How—“ John faltered, his eyes wide with shock.

                  His eyes swept upward to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, still holding the gun toward where Moriarty had been standing.

                  “Sh-Sherlock—” John stumbled backward, hand to his mouth, too afraid to approach the figure. He couldn't be real. He couldn't be.

                  Sherlock dropped his arm and threw the gun to the floor. His gray eyes stared down at Moriarty’s dead body and finally met John’s. He was blinking as if he, too, couldn’t believe his eyes. “John...?”

                  The two stood, looking at each other for a brief moment, then it was as if a switch was flipped. The two men hurled themselves at each other and slammed into each other, desperately grabbing the other to make sure the other really was, in fact, there.

John grabbed at Sherlock's face as they both fell to their knees. “How did—how did you— _how_? Where’s Hamish?”

                  “I’ve got him. He’s fine—he’s all right—everyone’s fine, John.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, pulling him up against him, not having any intention of ever letting go of him again. His voice cracked as he held on. “394 days…394 days since I’ve been able to do this.”

                  John was sobbing, burying his face in his shoulder as he held him tight. Had it really been over a year? It felt like so much longer. He noted that Sherlock was much thinner. He also looked tired.

                  Sherlock held onto John tightly, closing his eyes, then pulled back to look John up and down. John felt harder, more muscular, and his face looked weary. The lines in his face were more definite, hardened. His eyes were sad, as if he’d seen too much. He smelled of gunpowder, too—the skin at his neck, his hair—and Sherlock knew John had been carrying on in Sebastian’s footsteps.

                  Sherlock didn't pull back until the pool of blood seeping from Jim’s body started wetting Sherlock’s knees. He pulled John up with him, then leaned forward and gave John a wet kiss, gentle and sad and passionate.

                  John weakened in his arms, melting into him as they held the kiss. He'd almost forgotten a kiss could be a gentle, mutual thing instead of a painful conquest, and he started crying all over again, grasping at Sherlock's arms and leaning limply against him.

                  Sherlock held him to his chest, resting his chin on John’s head, not knowing what to say. That kiss had told him so much more than he wanted to know about what had happened here. John’s hesitation and tensing paired with the slightly raw skin around his wrists, spoke volumes, volumes that should never have been written, and he held John tighter.

                  John and Sherlock stayed holding each other for a long time. After several minutes, Jane ventured inside, unsure how to feel about the two embracing men, but happy all the same, wiping her eyes at the looks of complete love and anguish John and Sherlock had on their faces. She hesitantly stepped closer to examine the body.  “I think he’s truly dead,” He said, looking up at both of them. “Do you get to go home now, Dr. Watson?”

                  John drew back to look at Sherlock’s face, examining every feature. “Yes. We get to go home.”

                  Sherlock and John left Jim’s body where it lay, both wanting it to be seen. Someone else would clean it up. John, knowing several places where Jim stored his money, collected it, giving half to Jane. He instructed her to leave the city with her son, just in case. Then, before any of Jim’s lackeys could make an unexpected early appearance for dinner, Sherlock and John left Jim’s Dublin townhouse forever.

 

                  When they returned home a few days later, Mary was at the door, astonished at the hardened soldier who rushed to give her a hug. In their flat—John savored the space—221B, _their_ flat—Hamish was waiting.

                  The boy, who had grown so much over the year, ran up to both of them and hugged them around the necks, crying as they both kneeled in front of him. “I didn’t know if you’d both come back—I—I—I didn’t know if- if you’d both be okay—I didn’t want you to die for _real_ , Dad—either of you!”

                  Hamish broke into sobs and Sherlock hugged them both, together for the first time in almost fourteen months, pressing his cheek against Hamish's head. “We're here, we're here now.”

                  John squeezed them both. “We're home. We're all home.”

 


	14. Epilogue

                  For the next week, Sherlock, John, and Hamish closed themselves in 221B. Sherlock took up his violin again, along with Hamish, who was starting up music lessons at his London school. John continued to tell Mr. Doyle and Mary about Sherlock’s other cases, as well as details about Dublin, leaving out the more upsetting parts of the story—parts he would relate to Sherlock later, in private.

                  John was healing slowly. He stopped doing push-ups every day. He stopped carrying a pistol in his coat. He explained to Hamish why he had to lie to him, and though it was difficult, John explained to Sherlock how he had gained Moriarty's trust.

                  Sherlock, having put together most of the pieces himself, didn’t enjoy hearing what John had had to do, but understood completely why he had. He was mixed with jealousy and pride that John had managed to fool James Moriarty.

                  Even so, John and Sherlock's relationship needed mending. John was hesitant to get too physically close right away, which Sherlock didn't press.

                  Several weeks later, on a cool summer night, Sherlock stepped into his bedroom to find John waiting. He'd scrounged up candles and had turned the oil lamp on the bedside table low. John beamed up at Sherlock, clean-shaven. “Hello.”

                  A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth as he looked around the room. He had noticed some of the candles had gone missing. “Hello.”

                  Sherlock reached up and loosened his tie. John stepped forward to help him, slowly pulling the silk loose from Sherlock’s collar.

                  “So...how do you want me?” He looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes, awaiting orders as he began to unbutton his own shirt.

                  Sherlock frowned and grabbed John's hands, stopping them on the second button. He searched John's face and realized that John was serious. He realized with horror exactly what John had gone through for the past year, but swallowed his shock and said gently, “John—I…not like that. This is give and take…I’m not Jim. I don’t want to just… _take_ you…”

                  John dropped his hands, startled at how fucked-up his whole situation with Moriarty had been. The worst thing was that he’d gotten used to it; being an object for Jim had become second nature. “Sherlock, I…what if I’ve forgotten how to do this? How to be normal? When I walk down the street I still…I still catch myself looking at target points instead of people. What do I do?” John looked up at him desperately.

                  Sherlock moved his hands up to hold John’s face and looks him in the eye, fighting back tears himself. “You haven’t forgotten, John, you _haven’t_. It came with time and it will _pass_ with time. You can do this, and I will be _right here_ wither you when you do.” He held John’s gaze a moment longer, making sure the message sank in, then leaned his head down and placed a gentle kiss on John’s lips, lingering a moment, eyes closed; before pulling back to look at him again.

                  John swallowed and nodded, overwhelmed. He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock very carefully, slowly, slowly opening his mouth to the kiss, keeping his tongue out of it for now. He moved his fingers, exploratory, up Sherlock’s arms and to his face, touching his chin, his cheeks, before sliding his hands to rest behind Sherlock's ears.

                  Sherlock didn't push John, letting him take the lead, kissing him back slowly, his hands still on John’s face, then slowly ran one through his hair and down his back to rest at his hip, the other sliding down to rest at the side of his neck, his thumb softly running back and forth under his ear.

                  John sighed against him, slowly stepping backwards to sit back onto the bed, taking Sherlock with him, never letting his lips stray far from his. He rested a hand at the side of Sherlock's neck and took two fingers to slide down Sherlock's back, vertebrae by vertebrae.

                  Sherlock sat on the bed next to John and shrugged off his waistcoat, dropping his tie to the floor. He slowly and hesitantly slid his tongue out to meet John's lips, but doesn't move it farther.

                  John felt electricity course through him. He opened his mouth a bit wider, meeting the tip of his tongue with Sherlock’s briefly, then finally kissed him more deeply, letting his tongue explore Sherlock’s mouth, inhaling sharply and grabbing Sherlock’s back a bit tighter. As he came up for air, he breathed, “I missed you. So much.”

                  “I love you John,” Sherlock whispered, then leaned back onto the bed, pulling John on top of him, still kissing.

                  John slid his hand up Sherlock’s shirt and tentatively touched the top button, then began slowly unbuttoning his shirt, moving his lips up to gently kiss Sherlock’s closed eyelids. “I love you too,” he murmured. The words felt so good, and he’d gone so long without saying them that he said it again. “I love you.”

                  Once the shirt was unbuttoned, John leaned down to slowly pick from Sherlock’s navel to his chin, tasting him. Sherlock tipped his head back and sighed, involuntarily sucking in his ghost of a stomach as John’s hot wet tongue traveled across it. He clawed down John’s back before he stroked up John’s arms and shoulders, then continued unbuttoning John’s shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. His biceps had grown and hardened considerably since they’d last been together. John felt harder in general, more trim, but it was still his John. He touched his bullet wound affectionately, letting his fingers trail through the light dusting of blonde hair.

                  John’s breath quickened as he pulled closer, and he leaned down to kiss Sherlock again as Sherlock ran his hands along his arms. “Do I look different? From when you last saw me?” He left a trail of light, slow kisses up Sherlock’s jaw to his ear, burying his nose in Sherlock’s hair. He’d missed that smell so much. He could drown in it.

                  Sherlock ran a hand up John’s neck to the back of his head, holding it against him, missing the feel of John, missing his smell, his smile, his touch—everything. Finally he whispered softly, “You look even more changed than Hamish does.”

                   John turned his head so his lips were brushing Sherlock’s. “Hamish certainly sprouted up though, didn’t he?” He gave Sherlock a soft kiss, nipping at his upper lip.

                   Sherlock chuckled lowly. “I almost didn’t recognize him at first…if he keeps this up, in a few years, he’ll be taller than _you._ ” He kissed John again, sliding his tongue into his mouth and ran his hands down John’s back and slowly slipped them into the back of John’s trousers, gently grabbing at his bare skin.

                   John gasped and pressed against him, then laughed, still finding laughter such a surprising thing, then growled into Sherlock’s mouth,  “That’s not funny.” He pushed Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders, rolling him over slightly to the left and then to the right so he could pull the arms free, then sats up, looking at Sherlock and running his hands up Sherlock’s arms from his wrists down to his chest and stomach, then back up to cup his face. He smiled.

                  Sherlock looked into John’s eyes.  “I missed you.” He sat up himself, John straddling his thighs, and kissed him again, pulling him close. John pushed into the kiss, gripping Sherlock’s back, relishing the feel of his spine and shoulder blades.

                  Sherlock groaned and arched his back, beginning to unbutton his and then John’s trousers before running his hands up John’s back, feeling scars there that hadn’t been there before. His stomach turned, but that vanished when John leaned in to kiss Sherlock with more fervency, pushing him back onto the bed. John’s hands were everywhere now, growing frantic. He murmured into Sherlock’s mouth, “God—I want you—“

                  Sherlock clawed at John’s back and bit at John’s lip, sucking on it. “You can have me, John.” He raked his nails through John’s hair, and as John kissed him back, he yanked on Sherlock’s trousers, sliding his hand inside to grab his erection, massaging along it as he worked down the trousers with his other hand.

                  Sherlock groaned loudly, pushing his hips up, reveling at John’s touch. It had been so long. “God—“ Sherlock clenched his pillow in his fists as his breath hitched.

                  John gives him another kiss, lingering, almost reverent, before sliding his lips down and brushing them over Sherlock’s skin as he crawled down the bed toward Sherlock’s cock, his lips finally meeting it to slowly lick up its length.

                   Sherlock shuddered, clenching his teeth, trying not to cry out, both in pleasure and anticipation. John took him in his mouth, slowly at first, gripping Sherlock’s hips with his hands and stroking the hollow place above his hipbones with his thumbs as he pulled in deeper, sucking and increasing the pressure of his lips.

                   Sherlock’s eyes rolled back and he squeezed them shut, curling his toes, breath catching. He’d forgotten how intoxicating John was, how good he made everything feel, how it felt like he wasn’t just stimulating one sensitive part of his body, but he was adoring Sherlock’s entire being. He shuddered, feeling pleasure hit him from head to toe.

                   John moved his hand back to grip Sherlock’s bum as he pulled Sherlock in deeper, pulling in and out with greater speed, easing up every so often to keep Sherlock from coming too quickly. He had forgotten how much fun giving fellatio could be when he actually cared about his partner, when he _wanted_ to pleasure him to the moon and back, to give him everything he could.

                   After a minute longer, Sherlock stuttered. “St-Stop!”

                   John drew away, looking up at Sherlock.  “Do you want me to get on my knees now?”

                  Sherlock stared down at John incredulously, his chest still gasping for air. “G-God…no…John. I-I want you to fuck me, John— _fuck me!_ ” Sherlock demanded, then dropped his head back onto the pillow.

                  “Oh-“ John’s breath caught as he realized how fucked it up was that he still defaulted to subservience, then he pushed aside the thought and laughed. “All right!” He slid his tongue up to Sherlock’s navel and kissed just above it before sitting up. He was halfway in the process of making Sherlock roll over when he changed his mind, steering him so that he was lying on his back once more. He slid off Sherlock’s trousers completely, then stood on his knees to shakily remove his own.

                  Sherlock spread his legs and let his muscles relax, his breathing starting to slow and even out. John grabbed something from the bed stand, a small vial of oil. At least being with Jim had taught him _something_ useful. He spread some on his fingers as Sherlock frowned at him curiously, then gently pushed Sherlock’s knees up toward his chest and slowly pushed an oiled finger inside, his breath catching at the tightness, then worked it in and out, slowly adding a second.

                  Sherlock breathed deeply and tried to relax. It had been over a year for him and he knew he wasn’t prepared.

                  John pushed his fingers further inside, carefully, then let them rest there for a moment. “Are you all right? We don’t have to do this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

                  “No—I’m fine, do it,” Sherlock said, taking a deep breath through his nose.

                  John pulled his fingers out, lubricated his cock, then very carefully pushed it in, pausing to let Sherlock get used to its width. Sherlock gave a small groan, and John pulled out and pushed in again, this time hitting Sherlock’s prostate, making Sherlock arch his back and part his lips in a silent moan.

                  “All right?” John whispered.

                  “M-more—“ Sherlock gasped.

                  John pulled out and pushed in again, finding a rhythm, gripping Sherlock’s legs and draping them over his shoulders so he could scoot in closer. He held on to Sherlock’s hips, groaning. “Sherlock—!”

                  As John moved, the uncomfortable stretching began to subside, and it was all pleasure as John hit Sherlock’s prostate once more. He moaned and began bucking his hips up to meet John until it was pure pleasure, and John complied to his thrusts by moving faster. John shuddered above him, digging his hands more tightly into Sherlock’s skin.

                  “God—John,” Sherlock muttered as they kept going, the joy inside him tightening and building. “Fuck.”

                   John cried out as his thrusts became harder, more resonant—he forced himself to hold back to a gentler pace for a few minutes, groaning, before moving the pace back up to his hardest thrusts. “Oh, God, Sherlock—I-I’m going to come!” John gasped. He was so, so close, and the next thrust deep inside Sherlock sent him over the edge.

                  The feel of John coming inside him sent Sherlock over the edge as well, and he came just after John, intense waves of pleasure washing through him. He fell limply into the mattress, gasping for air as John pulled out and crawled next to him, giving him a shaky, wet kiss. “We had a…lot of lost time to make up for…”

                  Sherlock let out a short, exhausted laugh. “Lucky for us…we have the rest…of our lives…to make up for it…” He leaned over to kiss John again, dropping his face down on the pillow next to him so close their noses are almost touching. John blinked away a couple of happy tears as looked over at Sherlock, finally so close to him again, as it should be.

                  Sherlock wiped an escaped tear off John’s cheek with his thumb. After a moment, he pulled away to grab the covers, untangle them a bit, and pull them over the two to keep them warm from the cool night. He set his head back where it was and let his eyes roam over John’s face, finding himself have to rememorize it as its changed so much.

                  John lets his eyes flutter shut, fully relaxing for the first time in what felt like a year, and scooted closer to Sherlock, resting his head under his chin.

                  Sherlock watched him, kissing his eyelids and lips gently. He’d spent so many nights alone that it seemed impossible that John was really here next to him. He almost didn’t want to fall asleep in fear that John wouldn’t be here when he woke up, as illogical as it was. “…Goodnight, John,” Sherlock murmured, his eyelids drooping despite his efforts.

 

                   A few days later found the two men sitting in the living room. Hamish was back at his old school, and Sherlock was taking a break from case work for the day. John asked Sherlock why he had never replied to his last letter.

                  Sherlock looked up from the book he was reading and across to John, sitting in his chair with a cup of tea, exactly where he should be, and exactly how Sherlock had imagined him every time his eyes swept the room all those months. “I read your letter and immediately made plans to get to Dublin. Granted, I’d been scheming for months on how best to do it. In lieu of replying I thought it safer to act without telling you, in case Jim caught word and tried to foil it. It took a good long while to get everything in proper order.”

                  John nodded sorrowfully. “I was sure you’d died. I don’t know how much of that conversation you heard—back with Moriarty, when he had the gun pointed at me.”

                  “All of it.” Sherlock gave John a sad smile. “I was in the kitchen with Jane. I fear I might have disturbed her.”

                  John smiled. “The dropped platter.” He paused and looked at the floor. “I understand why you didn’t respond. I probably would have done the same. But I meant it, what I said to Moriarty. When I thought you and Hamish were both dead—I couldn’t do it anymore. I wanted to be dead too.”

                  Sherlock shook his head. “ _God_ , John—don’t even say that…the very thought—“ He paused for a moment, looking at John, then lets out a weak laugh. “If I had faked my death— _again_ —for you, only to find out you had gone and let yourself get shot—I would’ve dug you up and killed you all over again.”

                  John laughed a bit too. “Faking your own death _twice_? You Holmeses always did have a flair for the dramatic. I’m making more tea. Want a cup?”

                  “I already have faked my death twice. Have you forgotten my aneurysm so soon? Once more would make it three.”

                   At that moment, their door burst open and Mary stepped in anxiously.

                  Sherlock stood up. “What is it, Mary?”

                  “Inspector Gregson’s here. The British Museum’s been robbed! They want you to have a look.”

                   Sherlock’s eyes flashed in excitement and he cocked an eyebrow at John, a smile spreading on his face. “Care to accompany me, Doctor Watson? It could be dangerous.”

                  John was already getting up and grabbing his coat. “Don’t wait up with dinner, Mary. Ta!”

                  Sherlock wound his scarf around his neck, scanning 221B over before he headed out the door after John. Everything was in its proper place, and everything was as it should be.

                  After they’d disappeared out the door, Mary went to the window to watch the consulting detective and the doctor stride down Baker Street with the inspector, ready for every crime and every adventure.

 

 

 


End file.
